I stare at her and wonder if I could even begin to tell her. Remember sixteen years ago?
But then I think of how she never asked me anything back then, not about my A levels or what went so badly wrong, nor about what had happened months later, when she found me in some stranger’s grotty flat. My life had derailed and we went months without talking, Milly busy with her new uni life. I always told myself I was grateful that she didn’t ask, but now I wonder why she never even tried.
‘Just some stuff at work,’ I say after a long moment. ‘I’m sorry it’s put me in a bad mood.’
Clearly it’s the right thing to say, because Milly smiles in understanding, already reaching for her phone. ‘It’s okay, Anna. You’ve been so fantastic. You need to think about yourself sometimes.’ She starts to scroll through Facebook, and I almost laugh.
I almost say, Really? You want me to think about myself? Because I think you want me to always think about you.
But that’s not fair, is it? Milly has always been so kind to me. It’s been the narrative of our friendship, and yet right now I am questioning it. For the first time, I am wondering what the truth is, but I still don’t say anything. I finish tidying the kitchen and make a salad to put in the fridge, and promise Milly I’ll see her next week, after she’s had her scan.
If there was a moment for me to tell her the truth, to make it about me, it passed. I think it passed sixteen years ago.
As I leave her house, a wave of sadness crashes over me, because I think something has changed between us, perhaps forever, and Milly doesn’t even realise it.
Thirteen
Milly
When I first met Anna in year seven, she looked like the kind of girl who could be the most popular one in the year – tall, blonde, a little remote – but somehow you just knew she wouldn’t be. In fact, if it hadn’t been for me, I don’t think Anna would have made any friends at all in secondary school. She’s always been a bit of a drifter, isolating herself from other people, cloaking herself in quietness.
I don’t blam
e her for that, not with the way her parents were. Her mother was an emotional drunk, her father a philanderer, and they played out their problems on the neighbourhood stage. In our small town, it was unfortunate, to say the least.
Thankfully, she had my parents to step in and act like a proper mum and dad. For a little while, they even signed her permission slips and came to her parent–teacher conferences, when her dad had moved to London and her mother decided she needed to find herself in Bali for a few months. Anna hardly ever sees either of them now, even though her mother at least still lives less than an hour away.
At the end of school, it seemed like everything was about to fall into place; we both had places at Bristol, and we planned to live together all three years. But towards the end of upper sixth, Anna got very strange and quiet, and then when our results came, and she found out she’d failed everything, she didn’t even seem shocked. She acted as if she didn’t care.
I think back to that time now, wondering if I should have done or said more. Pressed her about what was going on, because something must have been. Looking back, I realise I was a bit impatient with her; why was she stuffing up her future so dramatically and wrecking our plans? And part of me felt aggrieved, as if it was a personal affront. After all I’ve done for you…
As I mentally sift through the years, I realise I might not have been that good a friend then, after all. I think about all that after Anna has left, clearly not having told me whatever was bothering her. But then I think how reluctant Anna has been to ever tell me anything; I stopped pressing her for details years ago, because she so clearly didn’t like giving them, and generally that’s been fine. That’s been how our friendship has always been; I am the one who pushes forward, Anna is the one who hangs back. It’s always worked, and it can work now.
And so I decide to let it go. There are too many other things to worry about – my mother, my baby – and if Anna really wanted to tell me, she would. It’s what I’ve always thought, but for the first time I feel a bit selfish and even mean for thinking it.
Anyway, whatever was bothering her seems to resolve itself; she comes by a week later, and we have coffee and chat in the normal way. I even ask her about Jack, although she doesn’t say much, and I am a bit relieved. I don’t actually want to know details.
In late July, I have my mid-pregnancy scan. Out of instinct, I brace myself for bad news, but for once there isn’t any. The baby is healthy, perfect, a little girl. I’m going to have a daughter. I picture pink ribbons, frilly dresses, lace curtains. But, of course, she’ll be tough too; Matt will teach her football, she’ll dirty her knees and clamber up again. Nothing will stop her. We won’t let it. Alice. I feel as if I know her already. She is just waiting for me to say hello.
I call Anna to tell her the news, and she brings over a cake to celebrate. Jack comes as well, and we all toast Alice, champagne glasses lifted high, everyone smiling and happy. This is how I pictured it; this is how it is meant to be. How it is. Whatever nameless doubts and fears I’ve felt in my own insecurity, I push them away now, to embrace this reality. My daughter.
The weeks start slipping by; Matt and I buy a cot, a high chair, baby clothes, and with every purchase this dream becomes more real. Anna comes over to help paint the nursery, my colleagues at work throw me a baby shower. The intermittent cramps and contractions have stopped for the most part, and I am starting to feel not just optimistic, but assured. I am going to be a mother.
In late August, Matt and I go on holiday, our last as a couple, two weeks on the beach in Cornwall. Long, lazy days, reading and relaxing and dreaming about coming back next year, with an eight-month-old baby gurgling on a blanket beside us.
In September, at the start of term, my mother visits; it has been six months since her diagnosis and she has been responding surprisingly well to the chemotherapy, although it will never cure her, just buy her more time. How much, no one knows, but I am trying to enjoy the moments we do have, although between her symptoms and mine, there haven’t been as many as I’d like.
‘You’re looking so well, Milly.’ She smiles, looking near tears at the sight of me and my bump. ‘You’re radiant. Blooming.’
‘I feel it.’ I let out a little laugh. ‘Finally, after so many weeks of feeling like a lump.’ I take hold of her hand, which feels fragile, her bones hollow like a bird’s. ‘How are you doing, Mum?’
‘I’m all right. Trying to enjoy every moment.’ She sighs and squeezes my hand lightly, her fingers fragile around my own. ‘I want to see this granddaughter of mine. Watch her grow up.’
Tears prick my eyes and I blink them back. ‘You will,’ I promise, but I ache to think of what she might not see – my daughter’s first steps, maybe even her first smile. It is something that hurts too much to think about.
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Mum says, her voice hesitant, her hand still in mine. ‘I hope you realise that.’
‘Of course I do.’ There is an odd look of regret on my mother’s face that I don’t understand.