Between Friends Read online

  You’ll not be surprised to hear that Mum is frustrated to hell that she can’t tell anyone. It’s amazing she’s kept schtum all these years. She’s still an absolute dragon and I never know from one day to the next if she’s talking to me, but on balance, I think she’s glad I moved back home (a knee-jerk decision following the breaking of a heart – his, not mine). The problem with writing is that I sit alone for hour after hour lost inside my own imagination, which, as you know, is a bizarre and wild place to be, and what’s worse, my imagination is pretending to be someone else’s imagination, which adds even more weirdness to the situation. But at least the lives of my pretend friends are interesting, which is more than can be said for my crappy old existence at the moment. It’s a sad state of affairs when my characters are getting more action in the bedroom than me *breathes deep and heavy sigh*. My latest serious squeeze was a competition fisherman, Richard. He got me into bed by saying I was his greatest catch. We lived together for a while but it was an average type of relationship. Predictably, I woke up one morning and realised he bored me out of my mind, and even if he didn’t bore me out of my mind, there was no competing with his ultimate fantasy, the elusive twenty pound conga eel (or some kind of a big fish or another). So, one day, while sitting in silence at the riverbank burning the skin off my top pallet with scalding coffee, I took my lead from the salmon, told him it was over, fought my way up stream and came home to spawn.

  But now, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, I find that sperm is in scarce supply, which is worrying. There is this one man I met a couple of weeks ago on the internet who seems rather nice. He’s Irish and (thank God) very tall. I’ve begun to imagine myself playing Kathleen O’Hara to his John Wayne in The Quiet Man, but without having to live in Ireland or grow roses. Not that I have anything against the Emerald Isle, except it rains a lot and I’ve promised mum I’ll partner her at cribbage next year. She’s determined to annihilate the competition – namely Janey Peters - who stole her boyfriend twenty years ago. You’ve got to hand it to Mum, she knows how to play the long game. I’ve popped some sweets and magazines into a parcel for you along with one of my books – But That’s Not What I Meant. You might not have time to read it, what with being on the brink of war and everything, but if you do, feel free to give me a proper review (an honest one).

  Ciao, Bella!

  Aggie

  From: Wright and Longstaff Solicitors, Exeter

  To: Pollyanna Fletcher

  Dated: 3 January 2003

  Read: 7 January 2003

  Dear Mrs Fletcher

  Please find enclosed a copy of your Decree Nisi.

  We have received an offer of £245,000 for Rose Cottage which Mr Fletcher would like to accept. In accordance with your last instruction we will proceed with the sale. The equity will be split between yourself and Mr Fletcher as per the divorce settlement.

  Please find enclosed your updated Last Will and Testament as per your instructions. Please could you sign (where flagged) and return one copy to me at your earliest convenience.

  Kind regards,

  Justin Grant

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 7 January

  Me again!

  Oh, my good Lord! I’ve just had phone sex with the Irishman. Gorgeous voice. I was worried he would sound like Gerry Adams, but no, his accent was soft and sexy. I tried to sound less northern and more like a BBC news reader, but as it turns out, panting sounds the same whatever the accent, so I think I pulled it off. The next time we do it, I’m going to wear something sexy and lay on my bed so I can get into the mood a bit more. There’s something a little disturbing about having phone sex while wearing rabbit slippers and watching Midsomer Murders on mute, but I have a hundred per cent success rate at guessing the murderer by the first set of adverts and I’m not prepared to let it slip now. So anyway, don’t judge, but I’m meeting Paddy (do you think that is his real name?) in Venice tomorrow for one night – how bloody impulsive is that!? I’ve got a good feeling about this one.

  Ciao, Sweety, or as the Irish say, ‘may the road rise …’ etc. etc.

  Aggie

  P.S. Shit, I hope these letters aren’t proof read by the army.

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 8 January

  Hi, Aggie

  Very quick one. Can you do me a big favour, please? A few years ago I bought Dad a snow shovel from the Wednesday market and he loved it. It had a black, plastic shovelly bit with a wooden shaft, but the handle was made of cork which he really liked. The thing is, I broke it when Josh and I used it as a sledge on Hound Tor. Can you do me a massive favour and go to the market and see if you can buy another one. If you do manage to get one, please can you rough it up a bit and leave it next to the compost heap (behind the pile of old slates which are behind the greenhouse) and let me know when you’ve done it. I’ll write again tonight.

  Love, Pol

  P.S. You mentioned tripping off to Scotland as a throw away remark … what’s that about?

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 8 January

  Hi, Aggie

  Sorry about the abrupt letter ref the snow shovel but Dad gets a bit precious about his stuff and I wanted to get the letter into the post. You asked for some detail of my life on the brink of war, so here’s a potted history of my first week in the desert.

  We landed in Kuwait City late in the evening on 1st January. After the aircraft taxied in, I ducked down to glance through the window expecting to see the usual airport goings-on, but found myself watching RAF personnel (with their respirator cases attached to their belts) unloading the aircraft. Even though I’m carrying my own respirator case and a pistol, the possibility of being subject to a gas attack suddenly seemed very real. We disembarked the aircraft and were shepherded through a series of tents (the in-theatre arrivals process). Silence. No one smiled, none of the other people on the aircraft (soldiers, mainly) even looked at me. I was issued with NAPs tables (Nerve Agent Poisoning), an atropine pen (in case of chemical attack), some very strong anti-biotics (in case of biological warfare attack) and ten rounds of ammunition, which I shoved in my ammo pouch. Arrivals procedure complete, I was bundled onto a knackered, cold coach and taken to British Army Headquarters.

  I have absolutely no idea how long that journey took. Again, no one spoke on the truck and no one greeted us on arrival at the camp either. The guys disappeared off and I stood there, alone. It was the middle of the night. I was exhausted and had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do. I put on my head torch and walked down an avenue of tents packed full of soldiers who were sleeping on camp beds or on the sand. One of the tents I passed had a gap between two soldiers big enough to roll out my mat, so I fell to my knees, dropped down my rucksack, got out my sleeping bag and tried to sleep between the two soldiers, but desperate for a pee, I couldn’t. It was so bloody cold. You would think as a met woman I would have clocked how cold it gets in the desert at night in winter, but I’m clearly an absolute amateur.

  At around 6am, everyone got up. I waited for the tent to clear before putting on my Bergen (because it’s embarrassing). Although I scaled down my kit to practically zero before leaving the UK, picking up my heavy Bergen is a major operation. I have to kneel next to something I can hold on to, hook the straps over my shoulders and then use every bit of strength I have in my legs to stand. Walking is simply a case of forward momentum overcoming gravity. Anyhow, I followed in the direction of the masses and found the portaloos, cleaned up as best I could with wet wipes, went through the whole palaver of putting my rucksack on again, then asked an American where I might get some breakfast and was pointed in the direction of the chow tent. Then, finally, I was pointed in the direction of HQ, where I spent an hour looking for someone who could give me some pointers.

  Basically, in terms of delivering a met forecast, I’m on my
own.

  Regarding the set up here, it’s a bit Heath Robinson. Everything the American military have is state-of-the-art, but the same cannot be said for us Brits. Our HQ is a marquee-style tent which saw its best in Churchill’s day. There are two British armoured brigades in theatre. They have set up camp somewhere else in Kuwait - as have the Paras - and we will also have Royal Marines in theatre, but they are also elsewhere just now. Fox News plays on a big TV on permanent loop in HQ, so I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, although I haven’t been briefed regarding what I can and cannot include in my letters. It’s really quite odd watching the news to see the political machinations as they unfold. I see they are saying that they are trying to find a peaceful outcome. I hope they get one, but war seems like a fait accompli from where I’m standing.

  In the middle of the HQ tent is something called the ‘bird table’ which is roughly an eight by eight trestle table covered in a map showing enemy lines. The table is covered in Perspex and there are stickers on it showing the positions of all the troops. Twice a day, the General appears at the head of the bird table (quiet chap) as does the Chief of Staff. A representative from each army section gathers around the table. A green, old-fashioned telephone handset hangs from a wire above the table. You press a button to speak into it and we all take turns to brief what’s going on in our respective departments. This brief goes out to the brigades and to the Paras. We stand around the table in a set order - the met forecast always comes first so I stand shoulder to shoulder with the Chief of Staff, next door-but-one to the General, and watch the operation unfold every day, which means that my voice is the first voice the soldiers hear on the radio every day and will be throughout the whole operation.

  Typically, I still haven’t escaped from people complaining to me about the weather – i.e. how cold it is at night. Some things never change. I’m bored ninety five percent of the time. The lucky ones are the smokers. The other day I grabbed myself a cuppa and stood with the smokers – just to try to make friends. But I was holding a polystyrene cup rather than one with a lid that keeps the tea warm, and so I didn’t have the right kind of cup that says, ‘Experienced Military Woman’, so I didn’t fit in and had no conversation of worth. It was exactly like being the unpopular girl at the disco. Standing with the smokers I had a flashback to Home Economics, and wish with all my heart that I had befriended poor Jenny Jackson. The bullies were horrible to that girl and I watched it happen but said nothing. I was a coward and now I’ve got my comeuppance.

  Sorry to be so negative. I’m just lost at sea. In fact, that’s the irony. At sea, I wouldn’t be the least bit lost. I’d have my bunk, my place of work and my extra duties to stop my mind from wandering. Sea-time was awesome compared to this. I’m also on a downer because my Decree Nisi just arrived in the post – how messed up is that? If I could turn the clock back a couple of years I wouldn’t have left Josh and I wouldn’t be losing my house. My whole life is shattered, and the person who broke it was me. It’s like I’ve been on a suicide mission to strip my life down to the absolute basics and now I feel naked, homeless and alone. Thank God for your letters and the support of Mum and Dad, I’d be lost without you all.

  But … more importantly, Venice with a total stranger? Are you completely barking mad? Write as soon as you get home.

  Love, Pol

  Bluey

  From: Pollyanna Fletcher

  To: Joshua Fletcher, HMS Drake, Plymouth

  Date: 8 January

  Hi, Josh

  Just thought I’d let you know I made it to Kuwait. Not sure if you still want to know I’m OK, but it seems odd to have spent all those years together and then suddenly not communicate. I got the Decree Nisi through yesterday and my solicitor told me the news about the offer on the house. It’s probably best that the sale goes through while I’m away as I couldn’t bear to empty the old place. Can you please put my stuff into storage? Before I left I put my most precious bits and bobs into a blue plastic box. You’ll find the box in the little bedroom, it has ‘Pol’s Special Stuff’ written on the lid. Can you keep that box safe for me and I’ll pick it up when I get home. Hope all is good with you?

  Polly

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr Day

  To: Polly

  Date: 9 January

  Dear Babe

  Terrible news. The school burnt down last night! Every last bit of it. Shocking. Mammy woke up at three am to the sound of an exploding LPG tank. The kids have been given the rest of the week off which has caused havoc for the working mothers. No news on how the thing started, but it’s caused a lot of tears and upset and it’s distressing for the kids to see it – just a charred pile of rubble – and all their bits and bobs burnt to a cinder. Those nativity costumes have been worn by generations of kids. Terrible.

  There’s an emergency meeting with the council in the village hall tonight so I’m sure I’ll have more information soon.

  Love, Dad x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 9 January

  Hi, Polly

  Just got back from my night in Venice to find out that Midhope Primary has burnt down! The girls are moping round the village in floods of tears while most of the boys are whooping it up (and they wonder why girls out-perform boys). The whole village smells of burnt toast and God only knows how much asbestos we’re all inhaling.

  I’ll write later with the details of Venice but in one word - disaster.

  Love, Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 9 January

  Hi, Pol

  I’ve just got home from a meeting about the school and all I can say is, shambolic. I didn’t know your dad was still a governor? Bless him. I’ll not steal his thunder regarding details of the meeting, because I know what you’re really aching to hear about is my night in Venice, and what a catastrophic mistake of a lifetime that was.

  Paddy was only a bloody jockey! He was five foot three inches, max. What a liar! It seems the only correct detail on his online profile was that he’s Irish, and even then the accent could have been fake. Who the hell knows with the internet?

  My flight arrived an hour before his into Marco Polo Airport. Clearly I took the time to sort out my make-up and put on fresh knickers (a lacy thong would have been far too uncomfortable on the plane). I hovered around the arrivals hall feeling sexy, optimistic and very tall. When his flight came through I was so busy scanning the crowd at my head height I failed to notice the man standing directly in front of me with his face in my tits and his tongue hanging out.

  I’m afraid my expression did not mask my disappointment, cue awkward taxi ride followed by a blazing row in the middle of St Mark’s Square about the importance of being earnest (moral virtue, not book) which lasted until we mounted a gondola at the bridge of sighs (bridge of lies, more like). It wasn’t a one way conversation, though. He’s sparky, but then he is a Celt, they’re like that. He said I was a ‘fecking hypocrite’ as I had been equally as economical with the truth as I was clearly not a twenty-seven-year-old model. But as I said, if I had put my real age on my internet profile, men my age wouldn’t consider dating me because all men are pricks and they only go for women at least seven years younger (he had the good grace to agree). I turned my back on him under the kissing bridge and instructed Paulo to ‘just keep rowing – presto!’ (I temporarily forgot the verb, to punt, although even if I hadn’t, I could not have translated it into Italian. Mum may have improved my language skills by dating a Russian, a Frenchman and a Spaniard, but she never did shag an Italian).

  Eventually we cut our losses and decided to go out for a meal together. Over dinner I apologised and explained that my hostile behaviour could be explained (but not excused) by my disappointment. I said we could never have a relationship because:

  a. When standing side by side we looked like a comedy duo.

&nb
sp; b. He was just too tiny to be able to carry me over the threshold and I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be carried over the threshold – not negotiable. His honesty in replying to points one and two (above) was refreshing.

  He answered that the threshold had been the last thing on his mind when he’d asked to meet me. He’d flown to Venice expecting to have the best shag of his life with a woman who had the most magnificent tits and arse he’d ever seen on a photograph (a statement he stood by, which was nice). He’d surmised that if my sexual prowess in the sack matched my performance on the phone, he knew he would be onto a winner and had booked his ticket to Venice immediately (I have now learned that a romantic location in no way guarantees a romantic interlude).

  So anyway, we eventually laughed at the scenario and I ordered lobster, which was the same colour of my face having remembered the phone sex. And after a pleasant if slightly strained evening we flew home the next day and said our goodbyes at the airport. I’m so disappointed. I really thought I’d found the elusive one. But, fear not, I’ll take a deep breath and, like Paddy, jump straight back into the saddle, so to speak.