A VINTAGE FRIENDSHIP
Cathy Hopkins

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Cathy Hopkins 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Cathy Hopkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008295004

Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008295011

Version: 2020-09-17

Epigraph

There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.

Thomas Aquinas

That awkward moment when you think you’re someone’s close friend, and … you’re not.

Anonymous

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Epilogue

The Rules of Friendship by Sara Meyers and assorted chums

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cathy Hopkins

About the Publisher

Sara
1972

‘We have to do something,’ said Jo, ‘like a ceremony or ritual where we make a promise that, no matter what, we’ll stay best friends.’

It was July, our last day of school, and we were waiting at the bus stop outside Woolworths on the High Street in Hulme, Manchester. Ally, Jo, Mitch and me. We called ourselves the Fab Four, but today we were feeling more weird than fab. Our A-levels were done, the familiarity and routine of lessons over, tearful farewells made to classmates and the summer holidays were stretching before us. I knew we shared the same thoughts. Our lives ahead. Would we be OK? What would become of us? Jobs? Homes? Love affairs? Would we meet The One? Get married? Have children? We would be going out into the big unknown and, for the first time in seven years, going our separate ways. It was unimaginable to think of days and nights without my three closest chums – no more sleepovers, no more discussing every intimate detail of our lives, no more being there on each other’s doorsteps to share, support, laugh or cry. It was Oxford to study English literature for Ally, Exeter for me to do social sciences, art college in Brighton for Jo. Only Mitch would be staying put and getting a job, having put off college for a year.

‘A ceremony to mark our friendship?’ said Ally. ‘For better for worse, for richer for poorer, to love and to cherish, til death do us part.’

Mitch sang the opening lines of ‘Going to the Chapel of Love’, and the rest of us joined in with gusto.

‘I’m serious,’ said Jo. ‘This really matters to me.’

‘Me too,’ I said. I looked at my three friends and felt a surge of affection. I loved these girls more than anybody in the world: more than my brothers, more than any boy I’d had a crush on. We knew each other so well. Soft-hearted Jo who was so pretty but didn’t know it or believe it, no matter how many times we told her. She had soulful brown eyes and a full mouth with a perfect Cupid’s bow. The fashion at the time was for boyish figures and straight hair; Jo, with her curves and wild, curly hair, was the polar opposite.

Only Mitch looked as if she’d stepped out of one of the magazines. With her long lean limbs, high cheekbones and straight, long blonde hair, she was the beauty of the four of us: easily the most confident and a boy-magnet wherever we went. She was the leader of our small group, the coolest girl in school, too, endlessly curious, the first to come back to the rest of us with a music track or a lipstick, or to suggest we experiment with our parents’ drinks cabinet when they were out. In later years she would roll up a quid deal of Red Leb to smoke while listening to Pink Floyd or the Grateful Dead.

Ally was the smallest of the four of us. Neat and petite, with brown shoulder-length hair and grey, intelligent eyes. She was confident, too, but in a different way to Mitch. She had a calm about her; she seemed unruffled, always sure about who she was and what she wanted to do, the first of us to have a steady boyfriend, a boy she’d been with since fifth form. And then there was me, Sara Meyers, somewhere in the middle on the confidence scale. I had to work at how I looked. I scrubbed up OK, but only if I battled with my wavy chestnut hair by, much to my mother’s horror, ironing it under brown paper. Plus I’d been the last to lose any pubescent chubbiness, and I still didn’t really know what I wanted to do when I left college.

‘We could go out to the woods and dance naked under a full moon,’ said Mitch.

‘In Manchester? Even in July we’d freeze,’ said Ally.

‘We could get tattoos?’ Jo suggested.

‘Yeah. Where?’ said Mitch. ‘On our bums? Or boobs? What would it say? What’s the symbol for friendship?’

‘A heart? Two hands holding?’ I said.

‘No way,’ said Ally. ‘I’m not doing that. Too painful. What about we plant a tree? Or name a star?’

‘Nah,’ the rest of us chorused.

‘Why not? If we named a star, every time we looked in the sky at night, we’d think of each other.’

‘True,’ said Jo. ‘That’s sweet. Or … I know! My mum’s still got all my milk teeth. If you’ve got yours somewhere, we could have them made into jewellery then give it to each other.’

There was a brief silence before Ally, Mitch and I cracked up.

‘No words, Jo,’ said Mitch. ‘I can tell you now that I am not wearing a bracelet or necklace made from your old teeth.’

‘How about we become blood sisters?’ I said. ‘All we have to do is prick a finger at the same time then press it against each other’s to mix the blood.’

‘You lot are seriously weird,’ said Ally. ‘Sharing blood is too creepy and – like the tattoo – it would hurt.’

‘OK, so let’s just make a promise to stay friends then go and get pissed down the student’s union. We’ve earned it,’ said Mitch. She looked up at the bus stop. ‘The promise is that today, right here, at this magnificent, significant and noble bus stop—’

‘Noble?’ asked Ally.

I put my hand on Ally’s arm. ‘She’s on a roll, best let her finish.’

‘This place where we’ve stood a thousand times,’ Mitch continued, ‘in rain and snow and wind and sun; this place that has been a constant part of our lives since first year, we will swear here, at this landmark, that we will be friends for ever and always. Stand on one leg.’

Jo and I did as we were told. We were used to obeying Mitch’s mad instructions.

‘We’re eighteen,’ said Ally. ‘Oughtn’t we to act more grown-up now?’

‘Never, it’s very important that we don’t grow old and boring,’ said Mitch, to which Ally nodded and joined the rest of us on one leg. ‘Repeat after me.’

‘After me,’ I said. Mitch gave me a warning look. I grinned back at her.

‘I swear,’ Mitch continued.

‘I swear,’ said Ally, Jo and I.

‘That I.’

‘That I.’

‘Mitch, Ally, Jo and Sara.’

‘Mitch, Ally, Jo and Sara.’

‘Will never grow old.’

‘Will never grow old.’

‘And be friends for ever.’

‘And be friends for ever.’

‘Come what may.’

‘Come what may,’ we repeated.

‘Amen.’

‘Amen.’

We put our legs down but Mitch hadn’t finished. She put her left hand on the bus stop, Jo put hers on top, then Ally, then me. ‘Friends for ever,’ she said.

‘Friends for ever,’ we chorused.

‘And we promise to be each other’s bridesmaids,’ said Jo.

‘And name our children after each other if we have girls,’ I said.

‘Or boys,’ said Mitch.

Ally rolled her eyes. ‘OK, you could probably get away with a boy called Mitch, Jo or Al, but Sara? I don’t think so. The main thing is that we stay in touch and continue to be there for each other. That’s the main rule of friendship.’

‘And real friends keep their promises to each other,’ I said.

For a moment, Mitch looked tearful. ‘You really do promise? I’m the one being left behind here while you all swan off to college life and bright new futures.’

I put my arm around her. ‘We would never leave you behind, ever and you’ll have a bright future whatever you do because you are Michelle Blake and a force to be reckoned with. Anyway, it won’t be long before you’re off too, and in the meantime we’ll write and call with all our news and you must do the same.’

‘Deal,’ said Mitch.

‘Deal,’ said Ally, Jo and I.

Chapter One
Sara
2018

I was walking down the stairs towards the exit after the screening of our company’s latest drama production, The Rat, at BAFTA, when I noticed my boss Chris Lindsay. He was putting on his jacket ready to head out. It had been a glamorous night, the reception held upstairs in the David Lean room, where leafless trees in pots had been lit with white fairy lights creating a magical atmosphere. The area had been hot and noisy with chatter, the scent of perfumes and colognes wafting in the air as the TV crowd mingled after the viewing, picked at delicate canapés, sipped Prosecco and eyed each other up. I, being older than most there, was ready for my bed.

‘Hey Chris,’ I called. As he turned and saw me, I gave him my most winning smile. He didn’t return it. He looked away and walked towards the doors and out into the late summer night.

What the …?

Behind me, my agent Nicholas tripped and stumbled into me. I caught and steadied him, then we both almost fell down the last steps just as Rhys Logan, my arch rival and super bitch appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked as well groomed and smooth as ever.

‘Bit squiffy are we, Sara?’ he asked.

I took a deep breath. Rhys, of course, would have only drunk mineral water all night. ‘You know us,’ I replied with a grin. ‘Party party party. Can’t take us anywhere.’ I’d learnt long ago not to be defensive when Rhys was trying to wrong-foot me and I prayed he hadn’t seen Chris blank me. Rhys would have loved that, and it would have been all round the office by lunchtime tomorrow.

‘And what were you doing here?’ Rhys asked. Nicholas ignored his question and breezed out through the door on to Piccadilly.

‘Same as you, I’d imagine.’

‘Maybe. I was personally invited by the PR team.’

I’d been personally invited too, by the director who was an old boyfriend, but didn’t feel it necessary to say so.

‘Anyway, got to dash, early morning start,’ said Rhys.

‘I know. Way past your bedtime.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘The price of looking good.’

We both leant forward, air-kissed, and he was gone.

‘Did you see that?’ I asked Nicholas once we were outside and out of Rhys’s earshot.

‘See what?’

‘Chris Lindsay, he just blanked me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’re Sara Meyers. He wouldn’t dare.’

‘You just blanked Rhys, and very few people dare do that.’

‘That’s different. Rhys is a tosser. You’re being paranoid, imagining Chris blanked you.’

‘No, he did.’ I put the back of my hand up to my forehead in a mock-tragic posture and sighed. ‘It’s over. I tell you, my career is over.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Drama queen.’

We got into our waiting cab. As we drove away into the warm night, Nicholas closed his eyes and was soon snoring softly. Dear man. In his late seventies, bald as a coot, debonair and dapper, he was impeccably dressed as always in a suit and socks from Paul Smith, his shoes handmade in Italy. He’d been my agent and friend for over thirty years, a charming, kind and funny man, but with a core of steel when negotiating terms and well respected in the industry, something I had been grateful for over the decades.

I stared out of the window as we headed west past the familiar landmarks of Fortnum & Mason, The Wolseley (my and Nicholas’s favourite watering hole), The Ritz hotel, past Green Park on our left and into the flow of traffic around Hyde Park corner. I was puzzled by Chris’s behaviour. Fifteen years ago, he had been the man who was ‘thrilled and delighted’, his words, to have me on board. His team had put on a hell of a show at the time, pitching to me why I should join them and leave the magazine where I’d worked in my thirties and forties. I’d done a bit of TV work before then; I’d often been brought in as a guest writer and broadcaster on various lifestyle programmes, or to review the papers on a Sunday, but nothing permanent until spotted by Chris Lindsay. It had been seductive and flattering, and I’d accepted, and I’d had a very happy time since, coming up with programme ideas as well as presenting. For years, I’d hosted the morning show, then more recently the mid-morning programme, with a few extra appearances on shows covering everything from gardening to antique finds, the type shown in the early evenings. I’d particularly enjoyed the fact that my ideas were respected and often taken through to production. For years, I’d been the face of Calcot morning TV, my face on posters, social media, even buses. ‘Face on the back of a bus, not like the back of the bus,’ I gaily told friends at the time. I was recognized wherever I went, got good seats in restaurants, was invited to everything. It was a golden era, but I’d had a feeling these last few months that something had changed. The extra appearances were starting to dwindle. It didn’t look as if I was going to be given back my usual slot on the early morning show.

Nicholas opened one bleary eye. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Almost. Nicholas, my inner drama queen aside, what would I do if work dried up? I’m fifty-eight. Am I too old to be presenting?’ Actually, I wasn’t fifty-eight. I was sixty-four, a fact that Nicholas knew all too well, but kindly ignored.

‘Don’t talk tosh. There are plenty of women your age going strong on our screens, all still working. Have a facelift if you’re really worried about your age.’

‘I will if you will,’ I said. I knew he wasn’t serious. We’d discussed it at length after one of the directors had suggested it last year. I wouldn’t go that way. Why should I? I looked years younger than I was, something I worked hard at. A ten-minute routine every morning with my facial toner, an hour’s Pilates every other day, wheatgrass in smoothies, probiotics for my gut, six to eight glasses of mineral water whatever the weather. I maintained a size eight, despite the more than occasional night on the fizz. Luckily I’d inherited my mother’s good bone structure and my father’s slim build and, thanks to the talented Damian Ward, hairdresser to the celebs, no one would ever know that my shoulder-length hair, once chestnut brown, was now white under the blonde and fudge-coloured highlights. ‘And did you hear Rhys ask what I was doing there and not in a friendly way?’

Nicholas’s soft snoring told me that he’d dropped off again.

When we reached his house in Holland Park, I gently shook him awake. He opened his eyes, got out cash, waved away my refusal to take it and tucked the money in my handbag. ‘Sleep well, dear Sara. Your career isn’t over. Rhys isn’t your friend so don’t worry about how he acts or what he says. He’s an ass and all will be well.’

He had been listening, after all. I watched him as he got out and walked up the steps to a white teraced town house. A welcome glow from lamps lit on the ground floor showed that his partner, James, and their shepadoodle Atticus would be waiting up for him.

The taxi went on to Notting Hill and into a cobbled mews where I had lived for the past ten years. Home. No lights on. No dog, cat or partner waiting. My choice. No regrets. In I went and was upstairs, make-up off, in bed in less than ten minutes. Sadly, although exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come. My mind had gone into overdrive, going through my budget. How long could I survive without work? How would I pay the mortgage with no regular income? What else could I do? Is there a care home for celebrities where we’d all gather together in a communal area and sing ‘Memories’ from Cats? I finally dropped off as the lyrics about ‘better days gone’ droned on in my head.

Chapter Two

The following week, I’d just finished a piece for a series looking into the true value of health spas, when Chris’s secretary called to say he’d like to see me. Deep breath. Good posture. Ready to smile. Try to block out ‘Memories’ from Cats and singing has-beens in my head and replace them with Gloria Gaynor and ‘I Will Survive’.

Chris got up to greet me when I entered his office (floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the canal at Camden). Peck peck on each cheek. The Judas kiss, I thought as I took a seat and he settled himself behind his desk. I looked at him directly, confidently. What I saw was a man was in his fifties, grey hair worn too long considering it was thinning, dressed in jeans, checked flannel shirt and red Converse sneakers. No mention of the other week and blanking me.

‘How are you, Sara?’

‘Excellent,’ I said, giving him the Meyers smile (wide, dazzling and bright according to Hello! magazine eight years ago). ‘You?’

‘Good, yes, thanks.’ I noticed he wasn’t making eye contact. Never a good sign. ‘So. Sara. Bit awkward this. No easy way to tell you but we’re going to be making some changes round here. I … er …’

I let him squirm. I stopped smiling.

‘Well … thing is, direction from above,’ he continued. ‘They want a fresh look for the morning show …’

As if I didn’t already know, I thought. ‘Ah.’ A couple of months ago, there had been some changes in management and a young chap in tight skinny jeans and designer sneakers had been brought in. I’d only met him a couple of times but the rumours were that he’d been head-hunted to take Carlton TV into the next decade.

‘New faces …’

‘Younger faces.’

‘Some, not all. This isn’t about your age, Sara, but the programme formula is getting a bit tired …’

‘I get it. So you won’t be renewing my contract.’

Chris looked very uncomfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, if it was up to me—’

‘Not a problem, Chris. I’ve already had some offers,’ I lied. ‘One that looks very promising actually.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘You know I can’t say.’ I stood up. I didn’t want to prolong the meeting. No point. At least I’d be leaving with my dignity intact, and Chris would tell others that I’d had offers. I’d learnt long ago not to let anyone see when you’re sinking. This had been coming a while, moved from the prime morning show to mid-morning; only a dummy wouldn’t have seen what was happening. I offered Chris my hand.

Chris stood and we shook hands. ‘Best of luck, Sara. I really mean that.’

‘And to you too. I really mean that.’ I didn’t.

As I came out of Chris’s room, I spotted Rhys by a coffee machine on the other side of the open-plan office. He was staring at me to see how I’d taken it. I put on my most cheerful face and gave him a friendly wave.

What now? I asked myself once I was in the lift. I needed to talk to someone who would understand. The first person I used to call in situations like this was my close friend Anita, but she’d died five years ago. She’d have known what to say but she’d gone. So … what to do? Alcohol. Nicholas.

*

An hour later, Nicholas and I were ensconced in a comfy pew in a bar on Ladbroke Grove. In front of us was an ice bucket and an almost-empty bottle of Chablis.

‘Told you so,’ I said.

Nicholas rolled his eyes. ‘You told me your career was over. As your agent, I can’t possibly agree with that.’

‘So what now then?’

‘I’m often asked if you’ll do commercials.’

‘What for? Equity release? Stair lifts? Retirement homes?’

‘No, of course not, Sara, nothing like that, so you can stop that right now. Commercials can be quite lucrative.’

‘And everyone who sees them knows you need the money.’

‘So? Everyone needs money. No shame there. Want me to put some feelers out?’

I shrugged. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘Again, enough with the “woe is me” attitude. It’s not like you and it’s pathetic and self-indulgent.’

I laughed. ‘OK, being realistic. I’m past my sell-by date. Is it over for me now in TV? What other opportunities are there out there?’

‘Of course you’re not past it – you’re being over-dramatic. There are lots of women on TV who are your age.’

‘So you keep saying, but usually fronting programmes about pension fraud and care homes in crisis.’

He sighed. ‘Then write a thriller like one of those that are so popular now; they have to have “girl” in the title: Gone Girl, Girl on a Train, Girl with a Dragon Tattoo.’

‘Mine would be Girl with a Bus Pass or Girl with a Hearing Aid.’

He sighed again. ‘Stop wallowing. How about you write a children’s book? Loads of celebrities are doing it—’

‘I can’t write,’ I pointed out.

‘You don’t always have to. Some of them use a ghost writer to do the bulk of the work then add their voice with a few tweaks at the end.’

I shook my head. ‘I haven’t a clue what children like to read now.’

‘That hasn’t stopped the others, and don’t forget you were a child once. What did you read to Elliott when he was small?’

‘Charles used to read him the Financial Times. That’s why he ended up in banking.’ Elliott is my son, currently living in New York.

Nicholas laughed. ‘Write one of those guide-to-life books, or how to entertain or decorate your house.’

‘No, thanks. It would be in the bargain-basement bin before you could say Pippa Middleton.’

‘Can you afford to take some time off? Think about things? Let me see what’s out there while you tread water for a while?’

‘I could for a few months, not more. I hadn’t planned for this, as you know. My divorce cleaned me out, then, before she died, Mum’s care-home costs ate up most of what was left of my income.’ My dear mum had suffered from dementia and had needed care for the last eight years of her life. I found her a fantastic place, not that she really knew where she was, or even who I was some days, but she was safe and looked after, with doctors and nurses on call twenty-four hours a day. It cost all her savings, just about everything I earned to keep her there, plus I’d remortgaged my house but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. No regrets. She died last year but, in truth, I’d lost the mother I’d known years before that.

‘You should have got more when you divorced Charles.’

‘I didn’t want his money. I just wanted to move on, not get caught in some lengthy battle between lawyers.’

Nicholas sighed. ‘He was the guilty party, so it wouldn’t have been a long battle. He didn’t deserve you. Many women in your situation would have taken him for everything he had.’

‘Not my style – anyway, let’s not talk about him.’.

Nicholas reached out and put his hand over mine. ‘Something will turn up. Careers have ups and downs; you’ve had to change direction before and you can do it again. Wait and see.’

Chapter Three

I did wait and see if Nicholas’s ‘something’ turned up. It didn’t. It was odd not having to get up, rush out, work long days.

I spent the first weeks hiding away, watching TV and reruns of Frasier and my all-time favourite, The Bonnets of Bath, a series about a group of feisty and funny friends in their sixties.

In the mornings, I had a few cursory glances over job opportunities advertised on the industry websites. Waste of time. Nothing for me. It was a younger person’s market, the openings were for people starting out, willing to do anything, go anywhere to get their foot in the door. I was over-qualified and too well known for anyone to hire me for what would appear to be a backwards step on the career path.

Nicholas called from time to time, sounding cheerful. ‘Nil desperandum. Chins up. I have a few meetings. I’ll let you know if anything comes of them; it’s got to be the right thing.’ He and James were great, supportive, cooking supper frequently and pouring the wine, but then they went off to the south of France for a week in early September and the phone went quiet.

Network, I thought, that’s what I must do. And I did.

Launches, lunches, I was willing to go to everything and not to hide away. My motto is to say yes to all invites, I told myself in an attempt to be positive. I went through my book of contacts, renewing acquaintances, people I’d worked with, people I swore I’d never work with again. It was obvious that many of them had heard that I was no longer with Calcot TV and no one had any openings.

A book launch party at The Ivy in Covent Garden was the last straw. With its dark wood interior and beautiful stained-glass windows, it was usually one of my favourite venues, but I could see people looking at me then turning away, whispering to friends who’d then look over. It wasn’t me being paranoid. That’s it, I decided. No more. I felt my inner Greta Garbo coming on and wanted to be alone.

I left early and hopped on the tube to get home. An elderly man kept staring at me. When he stood up to get off, he leant over. ‘Didn’t you used to be Sara Meyers?’ he asked.

‘I did,’ I replied.

*

At home, I went into my sitting room, lit a candle and flicked through my contact list to see if there was anyone I had missed. I knew I was lucky that I had such a place to come back to. Normally I am a positive person who likes a challenge but there was no doubt that my confidence had taken a knock and I was glad to have somewhere as lovely to retreat to. My shelter from the storm was a three-bedroom two-storey house with bi-folding doors at the back of the kitchen that opened out onto a small courtyard garden, presently alive with night-scented jasmine. Best of all, it was within walking distance of the cafés and shops in Notting Hill, so I never felt isolated. James had found it for me after Charles and I had split up and we’d sold our family home in Richmond. James’s mastermind subject is Rightmove, and both he and Nicholas advised that I go for the house, not only to live in, but as an investment. I’d decorated it in neutral colours and added texture in shades of pale lilac with linen and velvet cushions and soft wool throws. James, who worked as an art dealer (when he wasn’t looking at property porn), helped me choose rugs, artifacts and antiques to complement the look and stop it looking bland. It was a light and lovely space, but the truth was that I’d spent little time there over the last years. I was always either working or out most evenings. The house was comfy, uncluttered and tasteful but something was missing. I needed people on those stylish sofas, round the elegant dining table – friends, those dear ones you could turn to when the chips were down. The ones who had been with me through thick and thin, who knew me before I was Sara Meyers, celebrity. Where were they? And why weren’t they calling to commiserate?

In the many years my career had been booming, I’d lost touch with some of the good old folk I’d known for ever, so maybe they didn’t even know what had happened. As is the way for so many in the industry, I’d hung out with the people I worked with. I have 400K followers on Twitter, more on Instagram and my public Facebook page has thousands of likes. Supportive messages had been pouring in since the news of my leaving Carlton had hit some of the papers. Not that the press knew what had really happened. Sara Meyers is moving on, the journalists had said, and I’d played along with that with lots of jolly posts on social media about new opportunities beckoning. But were these cyber-followers my real friends? People I could confide my anxieties to? Never. Not in a million years.

Nicholas and James: there was no doubt they were great and kind friends. I spent Christmases with them, they made a fuss on my birthday, they took me with them sometimes when they holidayed in France, but I was aware that I was the singleton and they needed space and time alone as a couple as well.

Jo and Ally were the next who came to mind. My oldest friends from school days. We spoke on the phone or emailed but due to geography, distance and busy lives, now I only saw them once a year, if that. It was my fault, I knew; especially in the last decade, I’d put my career first at the expense of letting my friendship with them fade. I felt a sudden ache for what we’d had as girls when Mitch, the fourth member of our group, was still around too. When one of us felt down over a boy, or something that had happened at school or with a parent or sibling, it would be treated with the same seriousness as if we were facing the end of the world. We’d gather in whoever’s bedroom it was, bringing company and consolation, then maybe go into the sitting room and watch TV, listen to music or just talk it through, squashed on a sofa, our arms draped around each other. If at Jo’s, she’d make bowls of butterscotch Angel Delight or cheese toasties to take away the pain. Overall there was love, and I knew that each one of them had my back as I had theirs. I had no idea where Mitch was any more but I knew where Jo and Ally were. I could contact them, but they lived too far away to troop round as they used to and be sitting with me at my table half an hour later, plus it was probably unreasonable to call out of the blue after so long and expect things to be as they were.

I went to my computer, looked through my contacts list, and realized I had loads of ‘friends’ going back years: friends from work, friends from when Elliott was at school and from whom I grew apart once the shared bond of the school gate had gone; local friends in the neighbourhood who I liked but always felt I had to be on my best behaviour with. Those who ‘got me’, with whom I could completely be myself, were few and far between.

Anita Carling. My lovely friend from university days. Was. When she died, it broke my heart. We’d hit it off from the day we met and had stayed friends right to the end. She was like family to me, lived in London so we could always drop in on each other and her passing had left an almighty big hole. She would have been round in a flash, making me laugh, coming up with mad suggestions to retrain as a stripper or such like.

It was sobering when friends and family died and the familiar landscape of life shifted. My world had changed. Losing a close friend, and some time later my mum, had hit me hard. They say people deal with grief in different ways. Some weep until there are no more tears, others block it out. I went for distraction. I felt their loss daily, so took every opportunity to work or be occupied, accepting every invite to a party for a movie, art show, launch of a new play; anything to escape from the reality of Mum and Anita not being there any more.

Of course there were others. Lyn and Val. Friends from work. Both gone from London and despite promises to stay in touch, we hadn’t. Martha. Ah. A great mate for two decades when I was in my thirties and forties until a demanding and prestigious job took up her time. Jen Beecham? A strong older woman, a mentor for me when I first got into TV. She moved to the States over twelve years ago and although we FaceTimed, I needed someone in this country, preferably this city, even better in my street.

As I went down the list, I saw there were so many others I’d drifted apart from over the years. Jane Ewing. Susan Lewis. Erica Peters. Sophie Jenson and Karen Wood. Sandy Jenson. Josie. Caz, Suse, Alice, Kate – great fun, good-time girls. Hadn’t seen them in ages.

Friends. They can heal but also hurt. Some can build you up, support you and help you face the world, others can also bring you down and leave you wondering what happened. Friendships change, I thought, evolve. Some you outgrow, some have different expectations, some come to a hard and painful end – which brought me to Ruth. Another good friend for many years, up there with Anita, Jo and Ally. For a long time, she was one of my go-to people in a crisis, one of my share-everything girls, one of my thank-god-for-girlfriends type of pals. She was a petite woman with dark Spanish looks, although she was Sussex-born. I’d known her thirty years, since I started working in television and she was a casting director. We hit it off immediately, same sense of humour, same hang-ups, same liking for a good Chablis or two. She had a son, Ethan, the same age as Elliott, so as they’d grown we’d shared all the ups and downs of their childhood, teenage tantrums, exams, university days, getting them ready to fly the nest and then the emptiness when they’d gone.

When she lost her husband Brian to cancer just over ten years ago, I’d persuaded her to have a spa day, a bit of pampering to take her mind off probate and the endless tasks of the newly widowed. We were in the sauna when she gave me the news that ended our friendship.

Charles and I had been married for thirty years; in fact, it had been at a garden party at Ruth’s that I’d met him. They’d been friends since their university days, even dated, apparently. They both used to laugh it off but it was clear she adored him and I, fool that I was, didn’t think there was anything to worry about. Most people adored Charles. God, he was, is, a handsome man: tall, fair-haired, high forehead, aquiline nose. He could have been a lead actor with his looks. Women always stared at him in restaurants, on the street. I enjoyed that, proud to be seen with him. At home, he was a gentle man, considerate, easy to get along with. We were happy. He was my safe place. It was he who pursued me, wooed and won me, not that I put up much resistance. I knew straight off he was the One; there was an ease there, a sense of the familiar, a feeling of coming home as well as a strong physical attraction.

We soon settled into married life, did all the usual couple things: country weekends with friends. He met and got on well with Ally and Jo and their husbands. We went to farmers’ markets on Saturdays, walks by the river on Sundays, cooked for each other, talked a lot about books, politics, life, made each other laugh. I was sure he’d always be there for me, as I was for him. We liked each other, looked out for each other. We had history, had seen each other through the death of my father fifteen years ago, and then his a year later. We had done exactly what the marriage vow says – for richer and poorer, better and worse – and, of course, we had Elliott, who’d sealed and strengthened our bond from the moment he was conceived. OK, the sex had faded a little (a lot) towards the end, but didn’t it with all couples? We even bought a book with exercises to do at home to resurrect the passion, but then agreed it didn’t matter, we had plenty of other things going for us. The bottom line was that he was my best friend, and I his.

Ruth and I were talking about a mutual friend, whose husband had had an affair. One morning he’d come down and told her that he no longer loved her and was leaving her for a work colleague, a woman who looked just like her, only fifteen years younger. She was devastated, and I was saying that we should be there for her, take her out, be supportive friends, when I noticed Ruth had gone quiet.

‘Look … no easy way to say this. I’ve been having one with Charles,’ she blurted. I laughed. She didn’t. ‘No seriously, Sara, for five years. We’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, but of course there never is one.’

I studied her face, puzzled as to where this bizarre claim was coming from. We’d been on holiday with her and Brian many times. We were close. I knew all her secrets, didn’t I? She went on to fill me in on more details. I listened, not taking it in. Five years? That meant it had started when Brian was still alive, before he got ill. It couldn’t possibly be true but it was. I got home that evening to find Charles had already packed his bags. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I never wanted to hurt you.’

For once in my life, I was speechless.

After he’d gone, I knelt on the floor in front of his empty wardrobe and howled like a wounded animal. Nothing had ever hurt so much. As deep as grief but a different kind of loss. He was still alive but gone from my life. I’d always thought Charles was mine. My husband, my go-to person, pick me up at the station ride, accompany me to a hospital scan and be there in the waiting room, holiday companion, my mow the lawn, take out the bins man, presence in the bed next to me, person to look over at and smile at a funny moment on TV, man to tell a piece of news or gossip to, put his feet on my knee for a foot massage. Part of my life. All my life. Always been there and would be until death do us part. My husband.

Not any more. The shock was overwhelming. I hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t suspected, not for a moment. I’d left them alone so many times. Why wouldn’t I? We were all such good friends. I’d trusted him, and her. But then it made sense – Ruth’s over-concern when Charles was unwell. I’d been touched by it. Her defence of him on the odd day I was having a groan. She always took his side. I’d thought it was her just trying to show me what a good marriage I had. And it was good. I knew he loved and liked me. Was it the sex? I pushed away the mental picture of him making love to Ruth. The thought made me ill but of course it was there – what did she offer that I didn’t? Adoration? Notable appreciation of him? Probably. Perhaps I’d taken what we had for granted, not expressed my true feelings enough and had expected him to know how I felt? Company? She didn’t work the hours I did but Charles, who was also in the TV industry, albeit behind the camera, had always seemed to understand, even support me in the demands my job made. ‘I’ll be here with a cooked meal when you get back,’ he’d often say when I was away from home a lot. He could have been the one that pushed and climbed the career ladder, even been a director, but he never had the ambition, he was a team player rather than a leader, a man who said he preferred a simpler, quieter life. He was my rock. My place to return to. Although … as a cameraman, there had been occasions when he’d had to be away shooting a programme. As Ruth made her confession, I began to wonder if he actually had been working all those times.

So, Ruth as a person, a friend to call at this moment of crisis in my life. I think not.

Sara Meyers. Me. What kind of friend had I been to some of these people? A good one at times, I liked to think, but a distant one who hadn’t made the effort in the past years, so basically a pretty crap one. I used to value my friendships highly, had rules I tried to adhere to about staying in touch, being there for the ones I cared for but I’d fallen short of my own standards. No regrets? That was usually one of my mottos but I did have regrets: I regretted that Mum had gone. Before her illness took hold, we used to have long chats about our lives, hopes, relationships, news, books and gossip. Although there physically for many years before she died, the mother I knew disappeared to the point she didn’t recognize me any more and often thought I was her sister. I missed the woman she had been – capable, curious and engaged with the world. I missed her maternal care and concern.

That Anita had died. She was still alive when Charles left and was there with endless support and sympathy, as I was for her through her illness. It was our unspoken code that we had each other’s backs.

Charles, also gone. When we were together, our table had always been full of mutual friends for long Sunday lunches, summer barbecues, cosy winter suppers. We made a good team, sharing the shopping, him doing the mains, me on starters and puddings. When he left, friends divided like guests at a wedding, taking sides – his and hers – and I lost the heart for entertaining. It never felt the same.

Three of the closest people to me had gone from my life in a decade and a part of me had closed off, unable to deal with the reality of losing those I had loved and being left behind.

Ally and Jo were still there, good friends and, though not in London, not really too far away. I should make a lot more effort to stay in touch.

So regrets, yes, I have a few, as the song goes. I could see, looking back, that I had hardly been the model friend, maybe not even the model wife. There were times when I’d done that typical TV personality trick of disappearing up my own backside. How were my next chapters going to be as I sailed into my late sixties, seventies and eighties and didn’t have the distraction of work? And no real pals to hang out with? I didn’t want to be alone, and yet who would be there for company and care? To laugh and cry with? I sensed a tsunami of gloom about to rise up and consume me, so I did what I often do when doom threatens. I got out my laptop, found a ‘dance along to Bollywood’ clip, pressed play and shimmied round the sitting room for ten minutes. Despite the uplifting music, though, I couldn’t escape the underlying feeling that I’d made a mess. I was in my sixties and a Billy No-mates. Friendship is a two-way street, one of my old rules, I reminded myself. Both make equal effort. You get in touch, they get in touch. I should do just that. True friends don’t let distance or work get in the way, so I should pick up the phone and let those I care about know that I’m still here and haven’t forgotten them.

Chapter Four

‘Some of those people weren’t your real friends,’ said Nicholas the next day, after we’d caught up with our news. ‘Plus people grow apart, move on when you find you suddenly have nothing in common any more. Sometimes it’s not personal.’

We were sitting at a popular breakfast spot just off Ladbroke Grove, enjoying the autumn sunshine on an outside table where we could people-watch as well as chat.

‘Yes but thinking about various friendships and why we’re no longer close, I know some of it has been my fault.’

‘Then do something about it. It was tough for you to lose one of your best friends to illness and another to—’

‘Charles.’

‘To Charles, and OK, so you don’t currently have a Thelma to your Louise, but you’ve got the time now, you can start again.’

‘Thank god for you,’ I replied. ‘At least you like me.’

He made a mock-puzzled face. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ he asked, then laughed. ‘What about your brothers?’

It was my turn to laugh. ‘Patrick and Henry? Not people to turn to in a time of crisis, and anyway, they live so far away. Henry’s in Norfolk and Patrick is in Iverness. It’s very much a one-way street – you know what it’s like with blokes. I call them and we have a catch-up at Christmas and birthday and that’s about it.’

Nicholas sighed. ‘That’s why friends are essential. As the saying goes, they are the family you choose. Old friends then? What about those school friends I’ve heard you talk about?’

‘Jo, Ally and Mitch. I was thinking about them the other night – well, Jo and Ally anyway, I have no idea where Mitch is now.’

‘What happened to them? Where are they now?’

‘Jo’s in Wiltshire, Ally in Devon. Jo has a big family and menagerie of animals living with her. Ally married her soul mate. We’ve been through phases, sometimes seeing little of each other then a lot then less again. After Charles left, I was the single one, I guess that changed things a fair bit, for me anyway.’

‘You’ve been very focused, had a fantastic career, not many people can say that.’

‘True and I worked hard to get where I am but success could be problematic sometimes.’

‘How so?’

‘Earning more than some friends, being able to eat out in nice places. Do I offer to pay or is that patronizing?’

‘Was that a problem with Ally and Jo?’

‘There was a time I was earning a lot more than them. One year I bought them expensive gifts at Christmas, lovely things. I wanted to. It made me feel really happy to spoil them both a little and share my good fortune. The next year Ally suggested we had a limit and not to go over it because Jo had felt she couldn’t match my presents and she had so many of her own family to buy for. But then, she gave gorgeous things like home-made chutney or jam. I’d loved getting her presents. It cast a cloud over the whole gift-giving caboodle so in the end we just stopped completely.’

‘You could have talked it through.’

‘I could have. I should have. They’re my oldest friends and probably would have teased me about it, told me to get over myself and that would have been the end of it.’

‘It’s good to agree on a figure for gifts sometimes, makes it easier all round or do Secret Santa. They both worked, didn’t they?’

‘Oh yes, they had careers too. Jo was always a great cook, had her own café, deli and farm shop for a while. She was struggling in the early days but she’s more comfortable now as her parents left her a tidy sum. Ally went into publishing then became a literary agent. Her and her husband were quite the golden couple. He’s a very successful writer—’

‘Name?’

‘Michael Conway.’

‘Writes thrillers. Course I know him.’

‘Ally was his agent. That’s how they met. She retired some years ago though.’

‘And what about the third one? You said you have no idea where she is.’

‘Mitch? Ah, we had a falling out … actually, no, more a parting of the ways.’

‘Why?’

‘She changed and Ally, Jo and I couldn’t relate to the lifestyle she chose. None of us know where she is any more. Actually, I’d love to know what happened to her now.’

‘When did you last see the other two?’

‘Jo last year and, oh god, I can’t even remember when I last saw Ally. Jo’s on Facebook so I can always see what she’s up to and I never feel too out of touch. Ally doesn’t do any social media. I owe her a call in fact, now I have more time, I could visit both of them.’

‘When was the last time you spoke on the phone?’

I groaned. ‘Months ago, maybe longer. I know, I’ve been a crap friend recently.’

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like it. It has to work both ways.’

‘I know, and I believe that too. I should get in touch, find out their news.’

‘How come you don’t know where Mitch is?’

‘Good question. I was closest to her at school. She was quite the beauty. As well as being my friend, I admired her. Everyone did. She had charisma, cheek and charm, and she ran at life with both arms open, embraced new experiences, always a glass-half-full type of person, endlessly curious about life and other cultures.’ As I described her I felt a stab of regret. Why had I let her go from my life? ‘She was a rare bird, the original wild child. She disappeared after Jo, Ally and I had gone off to university and … well, we all went our separate ways – careers, men, the freedom of being away from home., it was a time of exploration for all of us. I didn’t see much of Ally or Jo then either. Work and climbing the career ladder were my main priority, and they were busy finding their way in the world too.’

‘And you really have no idea where Mitch is?’

‘Not now. She got in with a strange bunch, went to live in a commune. I’m not sure after that … Don’t forget that back then there were no mobiles, no texting, no social media.’

‘So what’s the story? Has she ever tried to contact you? Or you her?’

‘She did at first, mainly to try and get me involved with the group that she’d joined. She was adamant that I should, in fact, but it wasn’t for me. I guess we forgot the rule that friends should be open to each other’s discoveries. I did try to do that in the early days. I made an effort to stay in touch, to understand what she’d got into, but I felt that she pushed me away once it was clear that I wasn’t going to join her group. Gradually she seemed less and less interested in my new life, and our friendship didn’t appear to mean as much to her as it had done – plus, if I’m honest, I was enjoying being single, exploring what was out there. She distanced herself from Jo and Ally too, and then life took over and we drifted apart, you know how it is.’

‘No, I don’t know how it is. I make an effort to stay in touch with most of my old friends, the ones that matter anyway. You have to. Doesn’t everyone make an effort with the people who are important in your life? Even if it’s just once or twice a year, you know where they are.’

‘God, you can be so stern sometimes.’

‘Tell me more about her. When’s the last time you actually saw her?’

‘Mid- or late twenties? I wouldn’t even know what she looks like now. As I said, she was a great-looking girl back in the day, but we all look different now. I was tall for my age with unruly hair—’

‘Photos?’

‘Hah! Hidden away somewhere you’ll never see them.’

‘Do Jo or Ally know where Mitch might be?’

‘I doubt it. I’m sure they’d have mentioned it if they did. Mitch had a boyfriend in London, a musician – quite famous I seem to remember, though none of us ever met him so perhaps it wasn’t that serious. Jo went to art college in Brighton, Ally – she was always the clever one – went to Oxford, and I went to Exeter. We saw each other in some of the breaks but I only remember Mitch being back up north once in our first year when we went back and met up briefly. After uni, I got my first job with a local newspaper in Plymouth and, of course, that took up all my time. Mitch went into a commune, and I seem to remember hearing she went on the hippie trail to India. She could still be there, for all I know. The group she was with were out to save the world – that’s when she became a bit weird. In fact, it was in that phase, or not long after, that I last spoke to her.’

‘Maybe she died, ever thought of that?’

‘I’d have heard. Someone would have let one of us know.’

‘Not necessarily. Sounds intriguing,’ said Nicholas. ‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘To be truthful, I haven’t given her much thought for a long time, but now I’m talking about her, yes, I suppose I am curious.’ Had she tried to contact me? I wondered. Perhaps a message from her got lost in the black hole of social media?

‘She’s possibly not in the UK then,’ said Nicholas, ‘because you would’ve been hard to miss for the last few decades, unless she’s not got a TV. But people don’t just disappear in this day and age, unless she ran off with Lord Lucan.’

‘Sounds about right for Mitch. She’d have done something exceptional. Even the commune, austere as it sounded, was out of the ordinary.’

‘Why don’t you use your newly won spare time to track her down as well as visit Ally and Jo? There are no friends as precious as old ones, and I can’t keep an eye on you every day.’ He sighed, slumped his shoulders and looked weary. ‘I need to share the load.’

I thumped him. ‘Stop it.’

He sat back up and smiled. ‘Seriously, are you coping OK?’

‘Trying not to panic. I have to find something soon or I won’t be able to make the mortage payments, but it’s not just that, what’s happened has given me time to reflect on the fact that I’m going into a new period of life. What do I want now? Who am I now?’

‘Look up your old friends,’ said Nicholas, ‘and ditch the existential crisis, it’s so last century.’

I laughed. ‘OK, it’s ditched. Top of the list – call Ally and Jo and start to track down Mitch.’ These old friends had been my morning, noon and night in my younger days. I knew I’d let things slip, but I was going to try and change that, starting now.

Chapter Five

As I walked home, I thought back to when I first met Ally, Jo and Mitch.

We went to the same convent grammar school and quickly found each other as like-minded spirits amongst the other new girls. Mitch stood out from the beginning; she wore her skirts too short and was always in trouble with the nuns for wearing lip-gloss or mascara. Ally stood out too. She seemed older than the rest of us, the grown-up in our gang, so composed, feet firmly on the ground and always self-assured. She never worried about fitting in and the latest fads or fashions. She was the middle child to two sisters, both boisterous: the elder one sarcastic, the younger beautiful. Ally, being more reserved, escaped from the pair of them into the world of books from an early age. Jo was a sweetheart from day one, one of life’s givers, too much so, in fact – she was always a sucker for a sob story, a puppy in need of rescue or an abandoned kitten. She cried if she came across a bird with a broken wing, couldn’t bear to think anyone was lonely or sad. She was funny too. All were good friends to have.

Those were innocent days. We used to hold sleepovers at each other’s houses, though mainly at Jo’s. We were always welcome there because she was an only child, and her parents were more than happy that she had friends. We spent hours talking about music and boy bands. My favourites were the Small Faces, Jo had a crush on Marc Bolan from Tyrannosaurus Rex, Mitch had a poster of Jim Morrison from The Doors on her wall, and in our first year at school, Ally liked Davy Jones from The Monkees, whom she claimed to love with a love that was true. We told her to keep quiet about that but she didn’t care. Mitch always seemed to be a few steps ahead – first to get her period, first to get a bra, then later a love bite, which got her into trouble when Mother Christina discovered it when checking name tags sewn in on the back of our school uniform.

Saturdays we’d go into town, hang out in Miss Selfridge and Chelsea Girl, trying on clothes that none of us could afford because our parents weren’t rich; then we’d head off to the wig department to try new hairstyles and hats and drive the shop assistants mad. Next was the perfume department to sample all the scents and, lastly, the lingerie department, where the lace and silk looked so much more appealing than the navy blue knickers we had to wear for school.

Once past puberty, we began to think about boys; there were endless earnest discussions about love and what we were going to do with our lives – careers or children? We got little sex education from the nuns. They told us two things about relationships. Firstly, if a boy wanted you to sit on his knee at a party, it was permissible as long as you placed a book at least the thickness of a telephone directory between his legs and your bottom. Secondly, again at a party, if anyone switched the lights off, we were to go to the nearest corner and shout, ‘I’m a Catholic.’ We thought that was hilarious because convent girls had a reputation as goers back then and shouting, ‘I’m a Catholic’ would only have alerted all the lads to where the game girls were. In my case, the racy reputation was unfounded. I was as green as anything, although not lacking in curiosity. We spent many hours discussing when we’d lose our virginity, how, where and with whom – which led on to meeting The One, how to recognize your soul mate, what fellatio was (not a character in Hamlet as Jo thought) and cunnilingus (not an exotic flower as I thought), and whether or not we’d do it. I have an image of Jo’s face during a discussion about blow jobs. ‘You what? You …? Ew. That’s disgusting.’

On Friday nights, we’d troop along to St Bernadette’s youth club, which was in the basement hall of the local church. There we’d dance in long lines to Tamla Motown and soul music. Afterwards it was back to one of our houses to discuss who’d kissed whom, which boys were gropers, which were to be admired and sought after. We rarely went back to Mitch’s house. Her dad was so strict and would complain if we played music too loudly or stayed out too late. Mitch always had some boy or other after her. She was a natural flirt and had her pick of the local talent. Most of them never lasted past two weeks, then she’d get bored and move on. Ally settled with a boy called Steven in the fifth form and went out with him until university and geography separated them. Jo and I were in awe of her having a proper grown-up relationship. It went way past anything Jo and I had experienced; we were late starters when it came to serious boyfriends. I was taller than most of the local lads and Jo was lacking in confidence. We both had a few admirers, we just weren’t sure what to do with them.

Our late school years were hard work, lots of homework, studying for A-levels that we all took seriously – we had no choice when the nuns ran the school – but there were respites between the studying, experimenting with drink at one of our houses. No one taught us that valuable lesson – don’t mix your drinks – and I would often end up lying behind the sofa with the room spinning, my head swirling after having sampled crème de menthe and lemonade, port and lemon, and – what we thought was the height of sophistication – vodka and orange.

Other nights, we’d discuss the state of the world. The Beatles went to India to see the long-haired Maharishi. A Buddhist centre opened locally. In 1972 when we were in sixth form, a hippie shop appeared on Oxford Road selling mung beans and muesli. We’d go in there and buy herbal teas and sit at our table, feeling ever so ‘with it’. Mitch’s sister Fi was always off to a demonstration of one sort or another. We asked ourselves if we should go that way too, get into politics, or should we learn to meditate and take the spiritual path?

I smiled to myself at the recollection of those days. Ally, Jo and Mitch were my best buddies, we’d sworn we’d be friends for life and, at that time, I couldn’t imagine existing without them. We shared everything: make-up, clothes, books, records, kissing tips, feelings – and god, there were lots of those, from angst, self-doubt, elation, frustration, to moments of just pure laughter because we were young and had the whole of our lives ahead of us.

I will get in touch with Ally and Jo, I told myself as I reached home. See if we can resurrect something of what we had and show them that I do still think of them and care. Ally’s probably in some chic little restaurant with Michael in the south of France sharing a bottle of good red wine. And Earth Mother Jo? I can envisage her in her kitchen, concocting something delicious for a houseful of family and friends, or on her land feeding chickens or ducks or sheep. I felt a sudden pang of envy for the lives that they’d created and a stab of regret for how mine had turned out. My fault. I’d been too reliant on Charles before he left, then too busy escaping into my career to keep up meaningful relationships.

Still … Ally, Jo and I went back a long way, knew each other before we hit the world or the world hit us. Nicholas was right, old friends are precious. It was time to pick up the phone.

Chapter Six
Ally
Present day

I awoke to find my husband Michael sitting on my side of the bed, shaking me. ‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘About six,’ he said.

I groaned. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t feel right.’

‘You probably had too much to drink last night,’ I said as I pulled the duvet up and turned over. ‘Go back to bed and sleep it off.’

‘No, Ally, something feels wrong.’

I sat up immediately. ‘Why? Are you in pain? What hurts?’

‘I feel weird—’

‘Breathless?’

He nodded.

‘Chest pains?’

‘Yes.’ I raced into the bathroom and got the blood-pressure machine. Something had been brewing for a few months now so I always kept a monitor nearby. At first Michael thought it was hay fever, an allergy causing a tightness in his chest. He’d suffered from allergies before, pollens causing asthma, shortness of breath, but it was now October and long past the pollen season in England. I’d finally persuaded him to see the GP, who told him it could be angina and organized for him to have tests. We were due at the hospital next week for a stress test. Friends made the joke about having a cute angina. We looked the condition up on the Internet and learnt that there were two types: stable and unstable. If the feeling of breathlessness came on after exertion but subsided on resting, it was stable angina and could be treated with rest and medication. If it came on randomly, not after exertion, it was unstable and more dangerous. Michael had just been asleep, hardly exerting himself.

I wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around his arm, pressed start and we waited. I glanced at Michael. He looked strained and anxious as the machine whirred, let out a puff of air and up came the result: 195/135.

Holy shit, that’s high, I thought. ‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ I said. ‘You stay here. Deep long breaths. I’ll get you a couple of aspirin.’

The rest of the morning was a blur. Two short fat bald men looking like Tweedledum and Tweedledee arrived at the door. Joe and Kev. Ambulance men. I’d no idea how long they had taken to reach us. I was in a daze, trying to remain calm, not panic, be practical. Nothing felt real. Joe and Kev were lovely. They made Michael laugh, reassured him, did tests, took his blood pressure again, glanced at each other in a way that confirmed to me that it was not good. They told me to pack a bag in case they needed to keep Michael in, carried him out to the road as if he was as light as a feather and into the ambulance. This can’t be happening, I thought. Michael was over six foot, fit as a fiddle, ex-rugby player, played cricket, tennis, went hiking, rarely ill.

‘I’ll follow on in the car,’ I said, ‘so I can bring him home.’

‘Good idea,’ said Kev, ‘though I expect they’ll keep him in until his blood pressure comes down. Bring what you need too.’

I gathered a few things and drove to the hospital, though I have no recollection of roads or traffic. When I got there, I found Michael in a cubicle in A&E, connected up to a heart monitor. He looked relieved to see me. I glanced over at the machine behind him. BP 200/135.

‘How is it?’ he asked.

‘I can’t see from here,’ I lied.

A young female doctor with dark hair in bunches came in, sat opposite and explained what was happening. She looked about fifteen years old. None of it was going in until I heard. ‘… heart attack.’

Michael and I were both shocked. We knew something was wrong but neither had suspected a heart attack. He hadn’t fallen on the floor clutching his chest. ‘Are you sure?’ Michael asked.

The doctor nodded. ‘We can tell from the blood test we did when you first came in.’

Michael glanced anxiously at me. ‘So what now?’

‘First thing is to get your blood pressure down, run a few more tests, then we can decide on the best course of treatment.’ She carried on talking and I tried my best to listen, take it in, ‘… take you up to ward, angiogram to see what’s going on.’

Michael reached out, took my hand. ‘Looks like I won’t be home today. Don’t worry. I’m feeling OK now. Could you bring me a couple of things in case I have to stay in a few days? Books, my laptop.’

‘Sure. I brought clothes, your wash bag. But I’ll wait. See you up to the ward. See where you’re going to be.’

*

The rest of the week went by in a haze. My dear friend Philippa, on hearing of Michael’s condition, was straight over. ‘You won’t drive, we won’t let you,’ she said and, true to her word, she organized a rota of friends to ferry me back and forth to the hospital. At first, I felt embarrassed. I could drive, there was nothing wrong with me, but Philippa insisted. ‘People want to help, let us. It won’t be for long.’

As the days went on, I was overwhelmed by friends’ kindness to the point of tears. Every day, another one would arrive at the door, then drive and drop me at the hospital. It was a relief not to have to go round in circles looking for parking spaces or worry if I’d gone over the meter time. Most friends came in, said hi to Michael, then diplomatically disappeared to give us time alone. ‘We are blessed, lucky,’ I told him. ‘We have the best friends in the world.’

In between hospital visits, I went into a cleaning frenzy at home, took every item out of the fridge-freezer, dusted, polished, wiped. The house had never been so spotless. I couldn’t sit. Something compelled me to keep busy because I didn’t want to face or hear the voices that appeared in the wee small hours, when friends had gone, the house was quiet and sleep hadn’t come. The voices saying, what if he doesn’t make it? What if he never comes home? And the reality would sink in. This was serious. Potentially life-changing. Maybe he’d make it this time but there might be another time when …

Some friends I expected to hear from, I didn’t. Others I didn’t expect to hear from, I did, like Sara Meyers, my old friend from school days. She called out of the blue, said she’d been thinking of old times and me. As soon as I told her the news, she offered to come down and stay. We had been close once, a long time ago, but we weren’t really part of each other’s lives any more, apart from Christmas cards and the occasional catch-up call. I’d see her on TV from time to time, of course, but less so lately, now I came to think of it. I’d missed her when she first drifted away; she was an upbeat person with a big smile and a bounce in her step, but her career had taken her away and I’d got used to living without her after all these years. The same went for our other school friend, Mitch, who had disappeared even earlier and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, though Jo and I had never lost that bond. ‘No need. He’ll be home soon,’ I told her. I was touched by her offer, I’d always enjoyed her company, but I had my team around me and my daughter Alice, who had arrived from Sheffield, where she lived now. My son Anthony had also offered to come over from Hong Kong, where he lived and worked. I told him to wait, reassured him that his father was in good hands. There would be time for longer visits when Michael was out of the hospital.

As I left the ward on the fifth night of Michael’s hospital stay, I said goodbye, kissed him. ‘You’ll be home soon,’ I said. When I got to the door, I turned back. He was sitting up, watching me, the expression on his face unguarded and infinitely sad. It hit my heart. It was as if he was saying, here we are, my love, not in control of our lives at the moment. We’re in the hands of others now, of others who tell me what I can eat and drink, what pillow I lie on, what time I am woken, when I must sleep and when you can come and go. In the hands of others.

*

When I arrived on the cardiac ward at the hospital the next day, Michael’s bed was empty. I looked around for someone to ask where he was. One of the young nurses, Yaz, noticed me and dashed forward. She had poppy red hair and tattoos on her arms. I liked her and her cheeky nature and knew that Michael did too. She had a bit of banter going with all the patients, and was one of those many people for whom you feel so grateful that they work in the NHS. She looked anxious.

‘Can I have a word?’ she said, and led me into a small room at the top of the ward where she closed the door behind us.

‘Where’s Michael?’ I asked.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Conway. He was a lovely man.’

Was a lovely man, was? ‘But where is he?’ I presumed that he had been taken for his angiogram or some test or other.

‘The doctor will come and see you in a moment.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘A massive heart attack about half an hour ago,’ she said as she reached out a hand to steady me.

‘Heart attack? No. Another one? But I just spoke to him on the phone this morning. He sounded fine. Is he all right?’

She shook her head. ‘We tried to call you but you must have been on your way here and there was no answer from your mobile phone. I’m so sorry. He didn’t make it. We did everything we could. Is there someone you can call?’

This time I got what she was saying. Michael had died. I felt my knees give way and I sat heavily on a chair in the corner. ‘My friend Philippa. She’s in the car park. I’ll call her now.’ With shaky hands, I fished my mobile phone out from the bottom of my handbag, where I noticed six missed calls from the hospital and the volume turned down too low to hear it.

This can’t be happening, I thought. Can’t be right. Can’t cope with this. I felt as if some malevolent force had blown a hole in my abdomen. The expression, hit by a train, came to mind. I couldn’t think, breathe or move. I was frozen.

Yaz brought me water in a plastic cup from the unit in the corner, then went to talk to Michael’s consultant who had appeared outside the glass partition separating the small office from the ward. He glanced at me then came in.

Philippa arrived I don’t know how many minutes later. She was out of breath from rushing. She sat and held my hand as various staff came in and gave us information or instructions. I wasn’t sure what. When the doctor came back to tell me something, I remember thinking, I don’t want to hear what you’re saying. I don’t want to hear this. I kept glancing at the bed on the ward, now empty, willing Michael to appear, be there again, sitting up, making cracks about the food and being given everything he didn’t get at home, like apple crumble and custard.

When Philippa drove us home some time later, I recalled the last time I’d seen Michael. Last night. Of course, I hadn’t known then that I’d never see him alive again. That look he’d given me, so tender, so sad. Had he known it was the final time he’d see me? End of. Date of expiration Thursday 25th October, a day in the calendar unmarked for the sixty-eight years he’d lived. We’d passed over it so many times, never suspecting for a moment that it would become a date to remember.

Chapter Seven
Jo
Present day, October

‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked Mr Richard as I sat in his consulting room at our local hospital. I’d had to wait twelve weeks for the appointment with him, despite my GP chasing it up. It was a warm day for October and I felt clammy and slightly breathless, something I’d been feeling more and more frequently of late.

Is this going to be it? I wondered. Bad news? My friend Ally’s husband had died of a heart attack, just a few days ago. Big shock. He’d appeared so fit, played sport, didn’t smoke, yada, yada. If someone like him can pop his rugby boots, what hope is there for a lazy lard-arse like me? Naturally, Ally’s devastated. He was the love of her life, her best friend; they had a wonderful relationship, unlike my late husband and me. Doug died over seven years ago and, even after all these years, I haven’t admitted it out loud to anyone, but god, it was a relief when he went. What’s that song by Bette Midler? You are the wind beneath my wings. Not in Doug’s case. He was the weight around my neck. He was a miserable sod and a crap lover. Oh, we’d go through the motions and all that, but making love with Doug was like trying to get a nicotine hit from one of those ultra-light cigarettes after years of smoking full strength. It all looked the same but didn’t reach the spot.

Doug never hit the spot. I doubt if he even knew there was a spot. When I confided in Ally, she said we just needed some fire to fan the flame. More like a case of dynamite, I thought. According to some statistics, the average couple have sex two to three times a week; latterly with Doug, it was more like three times a year – if there was nothing on telly – and even those times faded to nothing. Neither of us could be bothered. ‘Blessed is she who has no expectations, for she is not disappointed’ became my motto.

I’d stayed because I felt sorry for him, he’d have been hopeless on his own. He was often ill and suffered from depression, and couldn’t keep a job down in the end. I was his north star. Quite a responsibility. He tried in his own way, and he was good with the kids, but I’d left it too late to leave. I couldn’t do it, and in the end I found a way to live with him, mainly by pursuing interests out of the house and keeping busy, volunteer work at the hospital, looking after my parents before they died, kids, grandkids, pets. All the same, I had to do the grieving widow bit in case people thought I was heartless. They didn’t have to live with him. As well as his ill-health, he was a moody bastard, and so critical when there was no one around but us. Mr Smarmy Charm in public, Mr Nit-Picker in private. He wore away at my self-esteem and he drained any joy from my life, like a Dyson vacuum on supersuck. Liberated, that was what I was when he went. I got my life back, my bed back and my space.

Anyway, back in the room. Test results.

‘The problem is obvious,’ said Mr Richard. ‘You’re fat.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Fat, obese. Severely overweight. Simple. Blood pressure’s high, cholesterol’s high, you’re a heart attack waiting to happen.’

‘OK, now tell me what you really think, doctor,’ I said. He didn’t laugh. ‘But can’t you give me medication?’

‘Certainly, pills, pills, the answer to everything. If you shifted a few stone, people like you might not need them and would save the NHS a lot of money.’

‘People like me?’

‘Fat people.’

‘Yes, I got that. But the breathlessness I’ve been feeling? This tight feeling across my chest …’

He looked me up and down in such a way that he didn’t need to say the ‘f’ word again.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I lied. I do. Socially. Every now and then. I have lots of friends who keep a sneaky pack in a drawer somewhere. I hide mine at the back of the cupboard, behind the organic coconut oil and decaffinated green tea.

‘Exercise?’

I nodded. Not a lie. ‘I walk the dogs every day. Miles.’

‘Good. So walk more. How many units do you drink a week?’

‘About ten,’ I lied again. I don’t know anyone who drinks within their units or even knows what the units are. Fourteen a week for women, according to the leaflet that I’d just read in the waiting room. One glass of wine is about one and a half units. Not the way I pour them, more like four units per glass, so three and a half glasses in an evening and that’s your lot for the week.

‘I’ll double that,’ said Mr Richard. ‘Everyone lies. I’m going to give you a prescription for tablets to try and regulate your blood pressure, which you need to take straight away. Come back in two weeks and for goodness’ sake lose some weight.’

‘I don’t think you’re very nice, Mr Richard.’

‘Cruel to be kind.’

‘That’s what my late husband used to say,’ I said as I stood to leave, ‘and it was never kind.’

‘I’ll put your name down for some tests, an ECG, stress test, possibly an angiogram, though I have to warn you, there’s a long waiting list. In the meantime—’

‘Don’t worry, doctor, I’ve got what you’re saying. Lose weight.’ I went to the door. I shall be dignified, I thought, and then I’ll show him, this Dr Smug, I’ll lose the weight. I can do it. I’ve done it before. There’s not a diet I don’t know about. Lean for Life. Slimming World. Zest4life. Food Doctor Diet. I have two bookshelves full of manuals on how to shift the pounds. And a cupboard packed with diet food and shakes. All work. Just have to stick to them.

I swept out of the room, along the corridor, and climbed the steps to the café where I’d arranged to meet my friend Jane. The cheek of the man, I thought as I felt the familiar tightness in my chest, took a deep breath and put a hand out to steady myself on the banister. Once in the café, I couldn’t see Jane, so I got a cup of green tea (new diet starts here) and texted her to let her know that I had finished. As I sat there, I was aware that the feeling across my chest wasn’t going away; in fact, it was getting worse, as though someone had put a rope around my ribcage and was tightening it, causing severe pain, like really bad indigestion. It began spreading up to my jaw, my left arm. Uh oh. I felt nauseous and dizzy. Deep breaths. Chill, I told myself. The pain still wasn’t going away, my back hurt. I felt myself starting to fall and reached out to grip the table. Jane, where the hell are you? Oh, here we go, I thought as I keeled over, taking the table, tea and saucer with me.

Next thing I knew, I heard a buzzing, a ringing in my ears, then I was floating, floating … out of my body. What? I felt as if I was a balloon, wafting gently, softly upwards. Hold on a moment. This is strange, I thought. Nice but weird.

I looked down. I could see myself on the floor. Uh? How can that be if I’m up here looking down? People in the café were staring at the body on the ground. They looked shocked. I saw a medic run towards my body. ‘Clear the space, give her some room,’ he said to the few onlookers who’d gathered around. Nosey sods. I felt like laughing and waving – woohoo, I’m up here. I’m fine.

Another medic came running, she was carrying a bag. She knelt beside me, or rather my body, not me because I was floating around up here in the air. Not sure how. My own version of the lyrics to The Snowman began to play in my mind. I’m floating in the air … I’m floating in the hospital sky, I’m also down below, oh bollocks am I go-ing to die? I wasn’t bothered if I was. Being out of my body didn’t feel uncomfortable; in fact, the pain in my chest had gone. I felt light, weightless. Oh! Am I actually dead? I asked myself. Have I died? I watched the medics work on me; loosen clothing, the woman calling someone on her phone. ‘Urgent.’

I wanted to tell them, it’s OK. I’m up here, perfectly fine, really. The woman was injecting something into my arm. I didn’t feel anything from my place as spectator. I wasn’t sure what to do, though. Did it matter? Didn’t seem to. But what next?

Suddenly I felt a jolt, a pull upwards, away from the hospital café, away from the area, and I found myself hurtling through a dark tunnel, top speed, a sort of shunting sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unusual. I was travelling very fast then I was out, like a ball out of a cannon, flying, expanding into a sea of light, white light and oh … what a beautiful feeling. Calm. Pure. Love. Warmth. Joy. I know this place, I thought as I felt myself dissolving, like salt in water. So so peaceful. I know the feel of this place. I belong here. This is my true home.

Somewhere, a long way away, I could hear someone calling my name. I knew the voice. It was Jane’s. When did she arrive at the café? It was peculiar. I was aware of the sea of light but also the scene in the café. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been up wherever it was. I didn’t want to reply to Jane or go back down there. I liked where I was, floating, warm, so very very comfortable. But … oh no, I felt a pull in my solar plexus, I was going back, something was calling me back, back, back.

Then I realized what was happening. I probably wasn’t dead. I was having one of those out-of-body, near-death experiences. I had seen a documentary about it and thought it was a load of tosh, but hallelujah, now it was happening to me. How cool. Not tosh after all, I thought as I watched my body being put on a stretcher then hoiked up onto a bed, one of those with wheels. The female medic had a long plait and the man had a tattoo of a dove just behind his left ear. Bet that hurt, I thought. I wasn’t in the slightest bit afraid which was odd considering the circumstances. God, I felt good. I am soooooo chilled, I thought as I watched my body being wheeled away. Mr Richard was right, though: I am fat. It’s not often you see yourself from all sides, three dimensionally.

I heard a voice beside me. ‘Do you want to go back?’

I turned. Who was that? I sensed a presence, though couldn’t see anything or anyone. It was more like the sensation of a being, an energy, but whoever it was, they felt like my very best friend ever, full of love, warmth and humour. I got the feeling that this being shared my sense of the absurdity of it all. I was glad it was there. I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, but I knew somehow that it had my best interests at heart. The presence seemed kind. ‘Do you want to go back?’ it asked again.

‘Well I don’t think I do,’ I somehow communicated telepathically. ‘I like it here, weightless, timeless.’

‘Have you finished with your life?’

As I pondered the big question, my life or parts of my life began to stream in front of me, like a film. I saw myself as a toddler, learning to walk, a child growing up in Manchester, walking to school in the rain, digging in the back garden, fast-forwarding to being a teen at school with Ally, Mitch and Sara, in chapel, our shoulders shaking in silent laughter before getting detention, me as a young woman studying, a stream of friends. Doug, the kids, happy times, sad times, me rushing about a lot. Did I ever sit still? Always working. Getting married, having children, cooking, gardening, driving, cleaning, working, caring for my parents, caring for the neighbourhood. Busy, busy, busy. I’d been a human doing, not a human being. I felt the presence next to me, not judging, though a few memories left me embarrassed, like the time I was pissed and managed to pull the fridge-freezer on top of me, then had to lie on the floor with a frozen chicken and pack of garden peas in my hair until someone rescued me soon after.

‘Does whoever’s editing this film that is my life have to show that?’ I asked.

‘All part of the whole,’ said my new astral pal. ‘You learnt from the good and the bad and that was what it was all about.’

And then I saw more recent times. My grandkids. Oliver, Holly, Jason, Annie. My children, Kirsty and Graham, and their partners, Will and Saskia. My dear ones. All struggling with jobs, trying to get by, not able to buy their own properties. The lovely sensation I had been experiencing changed. I felt in the middle of a tug-of-war: my family on one side, the pull of the light on the other.

‘Darn it, damn it. I have to go back,’ I said. ‘It’s not my time. I still have stuff to do.’

‘Your choice,’ I heard the voice say.

‘Hey, but before I go, where am I? Who are you? What’s it all been about?’

‘Love,’ was all I heard, as suddenly I was being pulled, hurtled, catapulted back into that fat piece of blubber that was me. Oomph. Landed. Back in the body. Back in the room. It felt so heavy after the sensation of weightlessness, like being in wet sand. Hurt too.

‘I think she’s coming back,’ said a voice. Not the kind one up above, not my astral chum. I opened my eyes. It was the medic with the plait. ‘Jo, are you OK?’

‘We thought we’d lost you for a moment,’ said the man with the topknot.

‘You did. I was watching.’

Jane was at the end of the bed. ‘Jo. It’s me. Thank god.’

‘It’s OK. I felt like I died but I was watching the whole thing from up there.’ I pointed at the ceiling.

The two medics exchanged glances, as if to say we’ve got a cuckoo one here.

‘I was,’ I said. ‘I could see you working on me. You’ve got a tattoo of a dove on your neck just behind your left ear.’

The male medic looked shocked and put his hand up to his neck. ‘I do.’

‘So how was it?’ asked Jane.

Suddenly, I felt drained. They were all staring at me, Jane and the two medics, with expressions on their faces as if they were indulging a fanciful child, but I knew what I’d experienced and it had been real. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself back to the sea of light, but all I could feel was a throbbing pain in my head, my chest, and my shoulder where I’d hit the floor. Damn it.

Chapter Eight
Sara
Present day, November

I flicked on the TV and watched Rhys for thirty seconds. He was in the bright studio kitchen watching Antonio, a celebrity chef, cook risotto. ‘Oo,’ he oozed as Antonio spooned food into his mouth, ‘aah, fabulous.’ Ew, I thought as the camera zoomed into a close-up of him masticating the food. In the press of a button, he was gone. Thank god for remotes. If only they worked in real life.

Back to my quest to reunite with my old friends. I hadn’t got far. I planned to visit both Jo and Ally and make steps to reconnecting, but there had been shocking news from both of them. Jo was now recovering in hospital from a heart attack, and Ally was reeling with grief over the death of her beloved husband. I’d sent cards and flowers and would travel to see them when they were both up for visitors. So much for my assumption that they were living happy, idyllic lives. The recent events had served to show how out of touch I really was and I wanted to make up for that when the time was right.

Next on the list was Mitch.

I went to my computer, found Facebook and typed ‘Michelle Blake’ into the search box. Hundreds with that name came up, pages and pages; some with profile photos, some without. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down to go through them properly. Depending on the privacy settings, I was able to look at some and eliminate them – too young, too old or nothing like her. Other pages I couldn’t get into but could see photos. There were no pictures of anyone looking as I’d imagine Mitch would now. Once I had been through all pages with the name Michelle Blake, I typed in Mitch Blake.

Next I tried Twitter. As with Facebook, there were plenty to choose from, all around the world, but none looking like my Mitch. It felt hopeless. She might have married, changed her name. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. As a last resort, I found an old photo of us from our school days, took a picture on my phone then posted it on my page with a tweet saying: Michelle Blake from Manchester. Where are you now? Responses were immediate, mainly from pervs who clearly liked the look of us in school uniform. I took the post down after a private message from a man who’d sent a close-up of his willie. Bleurgh.

Deli. An almond croissant was calling me. It had been calling me for years but I’d always resisted. TV can put weight on a person, so I could never take the risk of anything so indulgent. But I was no longer on TV. I had some catching up to do in the ‘piling on the pounds’ department.

*

I was at the cash desk at the deli waiting to pay.

‘Sara Meyers!’

I turned to see Gary Parsons from Little Dog Productions. He used to work at Calcot TV but had left years ago to start his own independent company and had been very successful in doing so. He was a cuddly bear of man with a bushy beard. He was wearing clothes that made him look as if he was about to go hiking: jeans and a red checked flannel shirt, probably Oxfam’s finest; army boots on his feet. I’d always liked him and he was one of the few people I didn’t mind catching me with no make-up wearing an old jacket, my slouchy pants and trainers. He had two Portuguese custard tarts in hand. ‘Hey!’

‘Just the person I wanted to see. This is synchronicity.’

‘I am? It is?’

He glanced at my croissant. ‘Let me pay for that. Time for a coffee?’

‘Absolutely.’

We found a table by the window and caught up on gossip for a while. Who was doing what. Who was working where.

‘So. Synchronicity?’ I asked, once we’d exhausted the gossip.

‘I was only talking about you this morning.’

‘Good, bad or bitchy?’

He smiled. ‘All good. We have a gap in our programming. A gap I believe you could help us with.’

I felt my spirits rise.

‘We want to develop a new reality show.’

I felt my spirits fall. ‘Reality show?’

‘For the over-fifties. There’s a whole new market out there for—’

‘People my age?’

‘Exactly. We call it the Second Marigold Hotel market.’

‘You mean the Saga Louts? The Silver Surfers? You’re right, they’re finally being acknowledged.’

‘I know. The over-fifties have money, they read books, they watch TV, they go to the movies, the theatre. People are cottoning on that there’s a whole generation that are only just beginning to be catered for in the media in the last decade.’

‘And where would I fit in?’

‘Ah, well, that’s the question.’ He laughed. ‘We haven’t actually got an idea as yet. That’s why we were talking about you. If you could come up with something that would appeal, you of course could front the series.’

‘OK. So what kind of areas were you thinking about?’

Gary finished off his tarts, then combed the crumbs out of his beard with his fingers. ‘Something that hasn’t been done before.’

I laughed. ‘No pressure there then. Isn’t that what everyone’s looking for?’

‘It is, but I remember working with you. You were never short of ideas and often had more than the production team you were working with.’

‘You know I’m no longer at Calcot?’

‘I had heard. Idiots to have let someone like you go.’

‘I knew there was a reason I liked you.’

‘So, how about it? Have you got other commitments yet?’

‘Honestly, nothing. I could lie and say I had offers coming out of my ears, but the truth is, I haven’t.’

‘Well, that’s great news. I’ll send you over a brief but truth is, we haven’t got much so far. All I can tell you is we want something upbeat, an angle to draw in our more mature viewers, something relevant to that time of life. You still with your agent Nicholas?’

‘I am.’

‘I can sort out the details with him.’

‘Sounds great.’ I looked down at my half-eaten croissant. ‘And here was me thinking I could have one of these. If I’m to be fronting a show again, these will have to go.’

‘You look great. Too thin, if you ask me. Have a tart as well. They’re truly excellent.’

‘I’ve got an idea for your show. Love Island for older folk who like their food. We could call it Love Handle Island.’

Gary laughed so hard, he spat coffee.

‘Or Bus Pass to Love Island, for the over-sixties?’

Gary laughed again. ‘I knew I could count on you.’

‘How soon do you need realistic proposals?’

‘Next few weeks. We’d like to get started as soon as possible. So are you in?’

‘I’m in.’

I couldn’t wait to get started. I felt as if I’d been given a shot of adrenalin and, as I left the café, my mind was already firing off ideas.

I went straight round to see Nicholas at his office, which was in the basement of his house.

‘Sounds promising,’ he said, after I’d made a fuss of his shepadoodle Atticus and filled Nicholas in on my meeting with Gary. ‘Any ideas so far?’

‘No serious ones. First I thought I’d have a look at what’s been done so far. I googled on the way here. Gary was right. It has all been done. I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here, Big Brother, talent shows, cooking shows, health shows, travel shows, Strictly. How about a version of that for the elderly?’

‘With zimmer frames? Strictly Come Hobbling for people who’ve had knee and hip replacements.’ Nicholas screwed up his face. ‘Dating shows? Naked Attraction for the elderly? Can you imagine?’

I screwed up my face. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘OK, let’s think about this. You’re the age that they want to attract, so what’s important to you at this time of life? What concerns you? People your age?’

I sighed. ‘I remember turning thirty and feeling that I was old then, and now …’

Nicholas held up his palm. ‘You’re as young as you feel. We don’t need figures.’

‘Priorities change as you get older, don’t they? Elderly parents, looking after them and losing them, sometimes divorce, seeing some friends battle with illness, some lose that battle, others coming to terms with becoming empty-nesters or grandparents.’

‘What about for you?’

‘Presently my main concern is: will I ever work again? Finances. How much I might need to survive depending on how long I live. It’s weird to think about how much I might need if I live to ninety, or that maybe it would be better if I popped off before.’

‘Cheerful. It would help if when we’re born we got a date of issue and a date of expiration.’

‘Like a driving licence.’

‘Programme about finding work in your fifties?’ Nicholas suggested.

‘Sounds dull. Gary said he wanted uplifting. What about a makeover show? Everyone loves a good before-and-after programme.’

‘Like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? Hard to top that.’

‘Or what about Snog, Marry or Avoid for the elderly? We could call it Medicate, Resuscitate or Pull the Plug?’

Nicholas eyes twinkled. ‘What you have to do, Sara, is really get into the mind of a fifty-year-old,’ he said with a grin.

‘If I can remember how that was. Gary still thinks I’m in my fifties.’

‘No one need know you’re not. What I mean is – you’re the target market. Come on, think. What is relevant? Sex? Men? Relationships? Cooking? Gardening? Retirement?’

We sat in silence for a moment.

‘I think I may have bitten off more than I can chew,’ I said.

‘Sleep on it, dear Sara. You have a few weeks.’

I left the office with my mind in a spin, generating and rejecting ideas one after the other as I tried to rise to the challenge of creating the next big thing. Did I still have it in me and why had I agreed to come up with the impossible so quickly?

Chapter Nine
Ally
Present day, November

Philippa had stayed over with me in the week following Michael’s death. ‘I can stay longer,’ she said as she made coffee one morning. ‘John can bring me some more clean things over.’

‘Look, I have to get used to it some time, plus he must be missing you.’

‘It’s your call, but I am happy to be here longer. We don’t need to talk if you don’t feel like it. I can get on with things, make a list of what needs to be done and not be in your way.’

I went into the hall and opened the travel case I’d brought back from the hospital. I’d been putting off looking at it and it had been sitting there untouched since the day Michael died. I retrieved the plastic bag that the ward nurse had given me. It contained Michael’s wedding ring, his watch, his mobile and his wallet. There was also a copy of Private Eye, a few clothes, clean pyjamas and the jeans and jumper I’d taken in for him ready for his return. He wouldn’t be needing those now.

I wondered what he was wearing now in the funeral home and who, which of the nurses, had been with him when he died? Who was it? Yaz? Or someone else? Was he aware of what was happening? Did Yaz or the consultant tell me? They had but I hadn’t taken it in, only that he’d gone. I think the consultant said it was sudden, I think he did. Michael hadn’t suffered. Could I go back and ask them to go over it all again? I decided not to. It wouldn’t bring him back.

A fresh wave of grief erupted. When alone, I’d cried until there were no more tears and I felt physically sick, but then something would catch me, a reminder of the man I’d spent so many years with – his shaving kit in the bathroom, a jumper over the back of a chair, the brand of tea he liked, his coffee mug – and I’d be off again, unable to contain the torrent deep inside.

In the past, Michael and I had shared everything – books, TV shows, newspaper articles, new recipes, new restaurants; any new experience we had was told to the other. We’d even talked about how death was a taboo subject in our society although it was going to happen to all of us. We joked that we’d send each other signs from the beyond. If Michael could, he would want to tell me how it was. How’s he going to do that now then? I wondered. And how could it be that my husband went to the hospital but all that came back was a plastic bag containing a few personal items? It felt unspeakingly cruel, so final. He had been a big man in every respect, a larger-than-life character with a hundred interests and opinions, my best friend and lover. How could someone so vibrant, so present, be now in the past?

I went back into the kitchen. ‘Do you believe in life after death, Pip?’

She shrugged. ‘I’d like to think that the soul lives on, but I guess we’ll never know for definite until it happens to us.’

‘My friend Jo, the one who had a heart attack, she was on about having a near-death experience, leaving her body and watching everyone down below attending to her physical body while she floated about on the hospital ceiling.’

‘Sounds a bit wild.’

‘Does, doesn’t it? I’m not sure what to think of it. But if the spirit does live on, people should be allowed to send one text after they die, don’t you think?’

‘Except you don’t get to take your mobile, or anything else for that matter. And what would you say? Arrived safely, then an emoji with angel wings? But I agree, it would be good to get some sort of message.’

‘Jo’s experience sounds like wishful thinking to me.’

‘That’s what I thought … OK, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone and you must promise not to laugh.’

‘I won’t.’

‘After my father died, I was very distressed that I wasn’t there to say one last goodbye, plus I wished there was some way of knowing that he was OK. I remember confiding all this to a friend. Ask for a feather, she advised me, and told me about the white feather theory.’

‘The white feather theory?’

‘Is that people who have died send them to let you know that they’re OK.’

I burst out laughing. ‘A feather? Sorry but … you believed her?’

‘Not at the time. We were on a beach in Dorset and, just to appease her, I opened my arms up to the sky and said, “OK Dad, send me a feather to let me know you’re all right.” I thought the idea was crazy, we see so many feathers every day, on the pavement, in the garden, they can’t always be signs from the spirit world. Anyway, John and I had a laugh about it as we drove home, but when we got back to the house, there – lying on the mat inside the porch at the front door – was a large white feather with a black marking in the shape of a W at the lower end of it. I took it inside and wept. My father’s name was William, and in all the thirty years we had lived there, I can’t recall ever having picked up a feather from inside the porch, never mind such a large one. Since then, often when I am upset about something, white feathers appear in the strangest places. Before a job interview that I was stressing about, I found one in the glove compartment of my car. Another time, I was worried about a medical test that John was having and I found a feather in the fruit bowl. It was reassuring finding them, like Dad saying: hey, I’m still looking out for you. And now you will think I am mad, grasping at straws … or, rather, feathers.’ Philippa shook her head and sighed. ‘You definitely think I’m mad, I can tell. Apart from John, you’re the first person I’ve told that story about my father.’

‘Why not? You never know.’ I gave her a hug. I didn’t think she was mad but to me, the idea was highly unlikely. I thought it was coincidence, that’s all, but I wasn’t going to pour water on something that had obviously comforted her.

*

For the following days, it felt as though someone had pressed fast-forward on the film of my life. The house was full of people: my daughter Alice, who was pale with grief (she’d been close to her father); my son Anthony; my elder sister Susan who took over running the household from Philippa. She was a control freak and normally I objected to her barging in and rearranging things, but this time, I was grateful. She made a list of family, friends, ex-colleagues who hadn’t already been contacted, got death certificates printed, booked the church for the funeral, organized the service – though Michael had specified in his will what he wanted. We searched for photos for the order of service, sourced the music he wanted, readings I knew he liked. I kept busy alongside her but felt removed from it all, hollow, as people came and went.

Alice’s husband Ethan arrived from Sheffield the day before the funeral. My younger sister Jess came from London, as well as one of my authors, Katie Brookfield. I was touched by her effort and glad she’d come. She was now in her eighties and as sprightly and sharp as ever. I’d become extremely fond of her over the years I’d represented her books.

I was grateful for the distraction of guests staying, beds to make, linen to wash, food to prepare, endless cups of tea to make; anything to take my mind off the reality of what had happened. Philippa was over most days with other close friends who lived locally, and my old school friend Sara arrived from London on the morning of the funeral, as did Lawrence Carmichael, Michael’s oldest and dearest friend. His presence was a comfort because he’d known Michael so well and had been a big part of our lives together. Before his wife died two years ago, we’d holidayed with them most years and had always got on well. I felt he understood what I was feeling more than anyone.

The day of the funeral was a dark day, with black clouds that lashed down rain, as if the sky was angry. It felt like a manifestation of my feelings.

‘Couldn’t have staged this better,’ I said to Philippa when there was a loud rumble in the sky as we dashed from the car into the church. ‘Michael appreciated a bit of drama.’

Philippa squeezed my arm as we went inside. ‘Yes, a mild summer day wouldn’t have been right for him at all.’

The service took an hour. I knew that because I’d been told when we booked the church, but it felt like two minutes. Adagio played as the coffin came in. The priest said something about Michael, which struck me as odd because he’d never even met him. Michael’s younger brother Neill read from The Prophet. Lawrence read a poem that I barely heard. Alice wept quietly all the way through. I kept my arm around her but no tears came from me. I was numb, sore, sad and – for the time being – cried out. There would be time for more tears later when Alice and Anthony had gone. As people filed out, the Liverpool football anthem, Michael’s team, played; there was a smile as everyone remembered Michael’s humour and the man.

Next it was over to the Horse and Jockey pub for drinks and ham and mustard sandwiches. There were hands to shake, people hugged me, commiserated, told me what a lovely service it had been and that was it. Done. Over.

I sorely missed Michael to lean on, to gossip with, about who was there and how they looked; how the men had been checking out Sara, the women too, a celebrity in our midst. I noticed that she’d made a beeline for Katie Brookfield and they seemed deep in conversation with each other for a while, and then Lawrence Carmichael, who was Katie’s editor as well as Michael’s, joined them.

It was strange to see Sara after so long; it must have been a few years since we’d met up. She was as glamorous as ever, looking ten years younger than our sixty-four years, and I was touched that she’d come and by her offer to stay over if needed. Her presence reminded me that we had been close at various points in our lives. When first married, we’d spent many happy weekends together. Things had cooled off a bit when we’d had our kids. It should have been a bonding time, but we had different ways of bringing them up, Jo and I working from home when we could so that we could spend as much time with them as possible; Sara with a nanny and a home help. Even on the times we met up and Jo and I brought our children, Sara came on her own and left her son with a babysitter. Our relationship had particularly faded in the last decade. After her divorce, by her own admission, she’d gone into a frenzy of work. It was her way of dealing with things, and I’d tried to respect that, even though it meant she barely had time to see Michael and me. I also wondered if part of the reason we hadn’t seen her was that we were a painful reminder of the early days with Charles when we’d all hang out. Once upon a time, we’d have talked about what happened with him, had a proper heart to heart about it but she’d appeared to want to move on from all that reminded her of him, us included.

She broke off from her conversation and came over to me. ‘Can I do anything? I could stay as long as you like if you need company after today.’

‘I … thank you, but I have Philippa and my family here for the moment. I appreciate the offer, though, really I do. We’ll catch up properly once things are more settled.’

‘Of course, whenever,’ she said. ‘I … I can’t imagine—’

Lawrence interrupted our conversation and handed me a drink. ‘This too shall pass,’ he said as he put his arm around me and kissed the top of my head. I hugged him. With so many of our mutual friends present at the funeral, I knew it would be bringing back memories of his own loss. Sara hovered for a moment as if she wanted to say more, but then drifted away and I lost sight of her.

Back at the house later, Alice and Ethan absented themselves and went up to Alice’s old room. Anthony got caught up with relatives he hadn’t seen in a while. Katie and Susan poured more wine.

At last they were all gone away to their beds, apart from Lawrence who helped with the clearing up. Before heading off to the B & B he was staying in nearby, he gave me a sleeping tablet. I took it with gratitude, welcoming the temporary oblivion that it brought.

*

The next stage followed swiftly on as house guests left and Lawrence and Philippa helped with shopping, feeding, washing, cancelling bank cards, subscriptions, Michael’s gym membership, letting his dentist, doctor, pension people know, the DVLA, tax office, passport office … The list seemed endless and, at the back of my mind, there was always the feeling that Michael would be back soon. I’d hear his keys in the door, my name called and then there he’d be. But no. His absence had a presence all of its own and it filled the house. The phone calls stopped. The bereavement cards ceased. Silence.

No one prepares you for this, I thought as I looked through his wardrobes, buried my face in an old jacket, breathed in his scent. Susan advised me I’d have to clear his clothes out but not yet … not yet.

Chapter Ten
Sara
Present day, November

I’d researched every reality show I could find, in this country, in the States, around the world. I wrote down words that I thought were relevant to the over-fifties.

Health.

Mortality.

Finances.

Support tights.

Whatever this original idea was that was going to save my career, it wouldn’t come. I was getting desperate.

My mind drifted to Ally and Jo. Ally was understandably quiet at Michael’s funeral and I knew it wasn’t the time to reconnect, but she had sounded so subdued when I spoke to her on the phone afterwards too. Also understandable, but I wished that there was something I could do to let her know I was there for her and help her through her grief, if that’s possible. There’d been a great turnout of people at the church and I’d met Katie Brookfield when I was there. She was the author of my favourite books and TV series, The Bonnets of Bath, and I couldn’t help but be a little starstruck, despite the circumstances.

Jo, on the other hand, sounded as high as a kite when I called her. Probably from the post-cardiac medication. She didn’t make the funeral because she was still recovering from her heart scare. She kept on about seeing a light and floating down a tunnel and how it had changed everything. One thing that struck me when I spoke to both of them was that they had a good network of friends who had been there through their troubled times. It made me realize all the more that friends were what was really missing from my life, how rare and precious the old ones were. I wanted to be there for mine, if they’d let me, as much as renew our closeness.

I headed out to the shops to find another gift or something to send to them both. I was aware that I couldn’t expect either Jo or Ally to just pick up on our friendship and that we’d be back with the ease we used to have, especially at a traumatic time like this for both of them, but I could make inroads. While I was at the shop, I flicked through the racks to find a Get Well Soon card to send to Jo. I opened one with a picture of a cake on the front. Inside it said, ‘Friends are the fruitcakes of our lives. Some contain nuts, some are soaked in alcohol, some firm, some sweet but altogether, they make a great cake and are good to have in your life.’ I smiled. That summed our old gang up. Mitch was nuts, I was soaked in alcohol, least I was these days, Ally was firm and Jo was sweet.

Ping. A light-bulb moment. I had it. An idea for the TV series. Friends. Programmes about friends. That’s it. It had been staring me in the face the whole time.

I dashed back to the house where I spent the next couple of hours scribbling like a madwoman. By the end of it, I had a format worked out for six programmes.

I FaceTimed Nicholas. ‘I think I’ve got it – the idea for a programme.’

On the screen on my phone, Nicholas looked expectant. ‘OK, what’s the pitch?’

‘You know that programme Lost Lost Family?’

‘The one where people hunt down family members, find sisters and brothers they have never known?’

‘That’s the one. Well my series wouldn’t be looking for family, it would be looking for friends. Most people have that one friend in their life, maybe two or three, who they have lost touch with, in my case Mitch, Ally and Jo. People you grew up with, shared experiences with, loved, swore eternal friendship with, but then somehow lost along the way. So … a series about finding these friends. Partners will come and go, leave you, die, move on, children fly the nest, so the programme will focus on the importance of enduring and lasting friendships to see you through. It will also look at those friendships that haven’t worked, or that have let you down.’

‘I’m getting interested now. I would imagine some reconnections would be good, heart-warming; others would bring up all sorts of buried resentments and open old wounds.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Could make great TV.’

‘Each programme, we take someone—’

‘A celebrity,’ said Nicholas.

‘Exactly, they would bring in more viewers. Each week there’d be a sports person, an actor, musician, rock star, maybe a politician or an author. We can see who’s out there who might like to take part. Get some researchers on it.’

‘And of course you’d front it.’

‘I’d love to, and Gary seemed keen if I had the right idea. The more I thought about it, the more I realized there’s so much material. Friends can heal but also hurt, men’s friendships can be different to women’s, plus the series could look at advice from counsellors on the importance of friendships, how to make them, where to find them.’

‘Sounds good. Keep it varied.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘Sara, I love it, and I can tell you’re fired up. I think you have something here. Write it up as a proposal, a few pages, and I’ll look it over then we can send it to Gary. Well done, I knew you could do it. And, on a more personal note, where are you up to with your search for your friend? I assume that you’re going to ask the two friends you are in touch with about the programme—’

‘Jo and Ally.’

‘Yes, see if they’d be up for taking part.’

‘Taking part?’

‘Of course. As well as fronting, you could be one of the celebrities looking for an old friend.’

‘Mitch?’

‘Mitch. Rope the other two in and see if they might be game.’

I shook my head. ‘I doubt it. I’ve been in touch with them recently and both are going through difficult times. Ally has just lost her husband, so it’s maybe not the time to broach it but … I do wonder what she’s going to do now.’

‘Maybe this could be just the thing – a distraction, an adventure. And Jo?’

‘Jo’s recovering from a heart procedure, so she may be reluctant too.’

‘You can always ask them. Nothing ventured and all that. Sometimes losing a partner or something like a hospital stay can be one hell of a wake-up call. Was for me when I came close to losing James when he had his scare, and the same for him when I was unwell. It might be perfect timing for both of them. They can always say no. Where are you up to in looking for Mitch?’

‘Still no further forward. I looked on Facebook and Twitter and couldn’t find her, at least not with the surname I knew, but I’m sure there are other ways. If Gary does go for the programme idea, then no doubt he’ll get top researchers in and Jo, Ally and I can do what we can to try and find her in our own way.’

‘Get on it, Sara. And it’s made me think too. Some of my old friends, where are they now? Probably in rehab or in their graves.’

‘Cheerful.’

‘My middle name.’

*

I did what Nicholas advised and spent the next week working on the proposal. It went off to Gary and he loved it, put it to his committee who gave it the thumbs up and assigned a budget to put it into development. He asked me to front it and potentially have my search for Mitch as part of one of the programmes.

Next on the agenda was to go and see Jo and Ally, see how they were and, if it felt appropriate, maybe try and persuade them to take part.

Happy days. I was back in employment. Back in the game.

Chapter Eleven
Jo
Present day, November

A prophet has no honour in his own country, so the Bible says. Yeah, tell me about it. I told my nearest and dearest about my out-of-body experience at the hospital, seeing the light, my astral pal. Hah! The looks on their faces.

‘Not out of your body, you were out of your mind,’ said my daughter Kirsty.

‘Must have been the drugs,’ said her husband Will.

‘But I wasn’t on any then,’ I replied.

‘Whatever you were on, can you get me some?’ said Jason, my sixteen-year-old grandson as he checked out my medication. ‘Hey, this looks interesting.’ I had to grab the Glyceryl Trinitrate out of his hand before he sprayed some on his tongue.

‘You weren’t well. Clearly whatever you experienced was a result of your medical condition,’ said my son Graham.

Apart from Jason, they looked at me with the same expression, as if I’d lost my marbles. It was very frustrating. What I’d experienced had been real, not imagined, not drug induced, not a hallucination.

As well as having seen the light, I am now bionic or robo-woman, as Jason called me. I had a couple of stents put in during my hospital stay. Amazing things, tiny metal mesh tubes that open up any blockages in the arteries. Angioplasty. ‘Saved your life,’ said the nurse in charge. ‘Ten years ago, you wouldn’t have made it.’

So, all good, apart from my family and friends thinking I am away with the fairies. Six to twelve weeks recovery time, that will be nice, and apparently I’ll be fit to go for another thirty years. And I’ve shed seven pounds already. It’s the new ‘have a heart attack diet’. I might market it and write a book. A radical if not extreme method to lose weight – chest pain, hospital food and no appetite.

While I’d been lying in my bed, I thought a lot about my old school friend Mitch Blake. She’d talked about seeing the inner light, and the need to find calm, when she joined a commune back when we were in our early twenties. I thought she’d lost the plot but she was talking about what they now call ‘mindfulness’. It’s everywhere – in books, magazines, classes springing up all over the place; the hospital even recommended it to reduce stress – as if it’s all new, but Mitch was on about it a long time ago. She was always ahead of the rest of us. I’d give anything to talk to her about it now.

Curiously, another of my old friends from back then, Sara Meyers, called out of the blue recently. She’d lost her job, a big blow to someone like her who lived to work. She certainly hadn’t had much time for me in the last few years, but she sounded different when we spoke on the phone. On the few occasions that we’d been in touch over the last years, she’d always sounded in a rush, distracted, impatient to be off to some place more glamorous, with more interesting people, and when we met up either on our own or with Ally, she was notoriously late. It drove Ally and me mad, especially in our younger days. She could act a bit ‘I’m so fucking fabulous’ when things took off for her in our thirties and forties, like she’d started to believe her own publicity, but Ally and I had known her too long and could usually tease her back to earth when we saw her. One time, when she was flying high in her career and I was still struggling, we’d gone out for lunch with Ally. Sara ordered two bottles of Cristal champagne to celebrate some promotion. When the bill came, Sara suggested we split it as we had always done, but that champagne would have wiped out my budget for the rest of that month. She hadn’t stopped to think that we weren’t all earning the big bucks that she was. Ally took one look at my face and got it straight away, and to be fair Sara cottoned on pretty fast, insisting on picking up the whole bill as her treat. ‘In that case, let’s get another bottle,’ I joked, but I felt bad about not being able to pay my way. Since then life has dealt Sara some knocks – her mum’s illness, losing Charles, her son Elliott going abroad to work, one of her good friends dying and now she’s lost her job. I got the feeling that behind her cheerful act she was rather unhappy, a bit lonely too. I tried to let her know I was here for her, invited her to stay numerous times. She came less and less in recent years, always too involved with her job to venture down to Wiltshire, though part of me suspected that the busy, busy lifestyle was an escape for her from what was really going on. The other day, when we spoke, she was like the old Sara; she listened to what I had to say and seemed genuinely concerned about me. It was nice, reminded me of what close friends we used to be. She had been a good person to have as a mate, despite her occasional thoughtlessness, and her intentions had always been well meaning. She was a sunny, open soul who wore her heart on her sleeve and liked to chat, chat, chat. I liked that because I always knew where I was with her and she laughed at all my jokes, even the rubbish ones. She said she’d been thinking about Mitch too.

‘Any idea where she might be?’ she asked after I’d told her about my floating into a sea of light and wanting to talk to Mitch about it.

‘Not a clue. I’d love to talk to her about my near-death experience.’ Like my family, I could tell that Sara wasn’t convinced that what I’d been through was anything other than due to medication.

‘Yes, I wonder if she’s still into all that “peace and love” stuff.’

‘Me too. I feel bad I dismissed it at the time. She must have been frustrated that none of us were that interested. I certainly know how she feels now.’

‘Oh Jo, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dismiss what happened to you, just it sounds …’

‘I know, bonkers. You can say it. So, let me think. Mitch was in London for a while, we knew that; then Devon, I seem to remember. It was so long ago, it’s all a bit of a blur. I was too busy trying to survive as a new wife and mother to think about seeing the light and saving the world like she was.’

‘Anyone you can think of who might know where she is?’

‘Not that comes to mind, but there’s bound to be someone back in Manchester you could ask. I saw her when I did the flash review of my life while I was having the heart attack, and she’s been on my mind a lot. Strange that we’re both thinking about her after so long. Do you think we were bad friends? Should have made more of an effort to stay in touch?’

‘That’s what I’ve been asking myself. Maybe, maybe not. Works both ways. She didn’t exactly try to stay in touch with us either, once she knew we weren’t going to join her way of life.’

‘Fair point. Shame though.’

‘And … I’ve been as bad as her at not staying in touch with my real friends, not lately that is.’

‘Well, you’ve had a lot going on. But you’re in touch now, Sara, and that’s what counts.’

‘You and I could meet up if you like.’

‘I’d love to, but I’m not exactly ready for house guests just yet.’

‘I wouldn’t stay long. I have something I’d like to run by you.’

‘Sure. Shoot.’

‘Er … not now. Not on the phone, it’s sort of about Mitch as well.’

‘Intriguing.’

‘I’ll see if Ally’d like to come too. This period post-funeral must be hard for her – so quiet now that everyone will have gone. The house will feel empty. She might like a change of scenery. What do you say?’

‘I say great.’ I’d stayed in touch with Ally more than Sara had in recent years. I had a lot of respect for Ally. She was the thoughtful one of our group, quieter and less inclined to blurt out all her feelings the way the rest of us did sometimes, but there was a lot going on behind her grey, intelligent eyes, and when she did let some of it out, I always wanted to hear what she had to say. I also knew she had great affection for our old gang. We brought her out of herself and made her laugh with all our teenage dramas and declarations of love or loyalty. If it hadn’t been for the heart attack, I’d have been up there cooking her hearty chicken soups and making sure she was looked after.

So. Size eight Sara wants to be back in my life. In the past few years when we’d meet up, I always felt like a large lump of whale meat next to her ‘not an ounce of fat’ frame, but curiously, since meeting my astral pal and experiencing the sea of light, none of that seemed to matter any more. I’d spent my whole life criticizing myself and my body, hating the way I looked. Such a waste. I wanted weight loss for health reasons and curiously, now I wasn’t so down on myself, the pounds were melting off. Plus, there was something else. Whilst lying in my hospital bed, I’d realized I’d spent the majority of my time looking after everyone else – family, friends, animals, waifs and strays – and look where it had got me. Heart attack hotel. My health had suffered. It was time to look after me for a change, and to have some fun whilst doing so. Sara had always been excellent company. It would be good to see her and renew our friendship.

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