The Mutual: Chapter 4
We Used to be Friends
Here’s the next instalment of a story about friendships, loneliness and the quest for mid-life happiness.
The story so far: Fifty-five and friendless Kitty Burtenshaw is contacted by an old work friend - Zelda Pecure - explaining that a mutual friend of theirs - Christine Lanchester - is a murderer.
Zelda explains how, by chance, she found a lost USB stick containing Christine’s personal information; from bank statements to photos of men she has dated.
Taking pity on the mess which is Christine, Zelda becomes obsessed with her, and plants herself in Christine’s life to befriend her. But the reality is vastly different to the dream, as Zelda discovers that Christine is a pain in the neck. But when a photo of a murder victim appears on the news, Zelda instantly recognises them as Christine’s ex-husband…
The notion of Christine Lanchester being a murderer was ridiculous. At least that’s what I told Zelda, even though deep down I couldn’t be so confident. Christine was fiery, always up for an argument. She’d fallen out with me three times during our on/off friendship over the years, always over something meaningless. To me, anyway. Christine would accuse me of things like:
‘You think you’re so better than everyone else!’
‘The reason you’re single is because nobody is good enough for you!’
‘You’re such a liar. You had no intention of coming to my engagement party!’
Nine times out of ten alcohol was involved. Then came the silence as she waited for me to come crawling back with apologies. But I never did. Because I make a point of not apologising when I’m not in the wrong. Her friends would phone me telling me to make up with Christine. Just apologise. Restore normality. I was not responsible for Christine’s emotional outbursts, nor anyone’s.
Our last conversation via e-mail went something like this:
Me: What’s wrong? Have I upset you?
Christine: Have a wild guess.
Me: By that I take it you mean I have? Sorry, but I don’t know what I’ve done.
Christine: The fact you say you don’t know says it all.
Me: Look, this is silly. If you won’t answer my calls then phone me when you’re ready to talk. Okay?
For Christine, it was always about the drama, and as much as I could look back on the fun times we had, I didn’t miss her theatrics. There was always something. Or someone. And, to use the parlance of our times, shit got old.
It was four days since I’d met with Zelda when I received a Whatsapp message from another name I’d resigned to the past: Christine.
We agreed to meet at a cafe in Soho. We used to buy our breakfast there when I worked on Wardour Street and Christine on Dean Street. But neither of us had been to that part of town for some time, and we arrived to find it had been demolished to make way for a new tube station.
I saw her approach, still Christine in her style and stance. Her hair was longer and her statement coat was new to me but at the same familiar in its… Christineness.
I smiled in recognition, which seemed to make her awkwardly look anywhere but at me. I hadn’t seen her for seven years. Not in the flesh anyway, only photos on the socials. There was no hug or big hello, more a sombre nod as she gently swung her handbag at my thigh. There was some awkward chat about the state of London transport and how Soho wasn’t how it used to be.
We headed for the nearest pub, where the unusually restrained Christine launched into her reason for requesting my presence.
‘Do you know someone called Zelda Pecure?’ I took a long sip from my beer bottle before I could confirm or deny, Christine continued.
‘I think she wants to kill me. Or at least, she’s murdered my ex. She’s a killer. Serial killer? Remains to be seen, but a psychopath yes.’
Tired of this nonsense and annoyed that Christine hadn’t addressed the reason why we had fallen out, my words and frustration collided. ‘Hang on. Your ex is dead? Aren’t you upset about that?’
‘Not really. He ruined my life so… Look, you do know Zelda, don’t you?’
‘Well, you seem to know that I do, so why ask? Why am I even here?’
‘Because I think she’s stalking me. I could be her next victim. I believe she wants my life. She wants to be me.’
‘Let’s say all of this is true. What’s it got to do with me?’
Christine could only respond with a withering expression as if I didn’t have a point.
‘I haven’t heard from you for years. I don’t understand this bad blood between us.’ I said. All Christine could do was huff, before pulling something out of her bag. A USB stick.
‘I found this on my doormat. Posted through my letterbox,’ said Christine. I didn’t need to hear any more, already knowing the history of that bloody USB stick.
‘Maybe somebody thought it was yours?’ I suggested, trying to wrap up this irritating tale. ‘Did you check what was on it?’
‘Yes. It was full of documents. Personal documents,’ said Christine, sounding awkward. ‘My personal documents.’
‘That was lucky. That thing could have been filled with all sorts of viruses—’ I tried to reaffirm the bright side of the situation.
‘This isn’t mine. The stick thing. I don’t own one. Somebody copied the files off my computer.’
Oh. OH.
‘Zelda did. The first time I met her she tried to give this to me. Asked if I’d dropped it.’
‘If you’re so sure it’s Zelda then speak to her,’ I stated bluntly.
‘She won’t answer my calls. I’ve messaged her about fifty times,’ blustered Christine. Strange Zelda hadn’t replied, I sarcastically mused.
‘Typical.’ Spat Christine.
My voice raised. ‘This is typical?’
‘People with an agenda. They always want something. Wanting to be your friend not because they genuinely want your friendship. Why can’t people be nice for the sake of being nice?’ rambled Christine.
I could have burst out laughing at Christine’s hypocrisy if it wasn’t for her watery eyes. She mistakes my moment of disconnect, presumably for boredom.
‘That woman has accessed my personal computer and stolen my files!’
I saw Christine’s loud voice and raised mine. ‘So go to the police!’
‘And say what? She stole my data but gave it back to me? I’d sound like a prize plum.’
My eyebrow flickers agreement unintentionally before I respond. Christine folds her arms, expecting me to say something that would make it all okay.
‘Christine… I don’t know what you want from me. I know Zelda about as well as I know you these days. If you’ve got an issue with her I suggest you—’
‘I can’t believe he’s gone. I mean, I hated him. He was a pig. A big… pig man… but why? Why is he dead?’ said Christine in a distracted way. ‘Everybody loved him. That was the thing. He could charm the knickers off a Nun.’
‘Maybe that was his fatal stumbling block?’
The purpose of our meeting dispersed with every drink, and the conversation grew warmer as we slipped back into the well-worn comfy slippers of nostalgic soundbites. Never talking about anything real or meaningful. Old teachers and school friends, the times we used to hang around BBC Television just in case Bros showed up, even though we were older than all the other Brosettes. Just bullshit. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Her: ‘I still miss The Astoria. It’s not right what they’ve done to this place…’
Me: ‘Have you read the new Jessie Burton book? I think you’d love it. Made me think of you. Right up your alley…’
Her: ‘… honestly I’ve never seen such a huge pile of shit. Spent two hours wanting to walk out, but the ticket cost something like seventy quid. Seventy! To watch a bunch of pratts pratting about on stage!’
Me: ‘Do you still listen to Mike Batt? He tweeted me the other day. I had replied to one of his tweets and made a joke and he took offence, he told me off…’
For an hour or so it was like the good old days. Like we had never fallen out, we had snuggled into our friendship like a favourite, comforting blanket. Then came the wet pavement and the freezing air outside.
‘Did you ever check in on me?’ she asked. I didn’t understand what she meant, and she repeated her question with all sincerity.
‘I could ask the same thing.’ I said, armed with the fact that I wasn’t the one who pulled the plug on our friendship.
‘But did you? Do you even care about me?’ asked Christine with a detectable anger. And there was that same old tired, dragging sensation in my heart.
Both of us worse for wear, we didn’t say goodbye. Just looked at each other, then turned in opposite directions and left. I had no idea if I would see Christine again, or if I even wanted to.
I headed home, stopping off at Aldi for something to soak up the alcohol. I’d not drunk that much for a long time. In fact, I only ever drank to excess when I was with Christine. As I nosed around the Christmas aisle, I overheard a small boy talking to his Dad. Bit late to be out, I thought. I checked the time on my Fitbit: It was eight forty-five. It felt like one in the morning. I picked up a packet of turkey and chestnut tortellini and a pigs-in-blankets-flavoured pasty without any thought, still focused on the small boy talking to his Dad.
‘Can I get up at normal school time in the morning so I can have some more time with you?’ he asked his Dad, who responded with a loving ‘Of course, mate.’
The Dad made eye contact with me, informing me I was staring. I smiled and nodded with affection at the boy, and got out of his sight as quickly as I could.
The nice lady at Aldi served me. The one with the big energy and smiley eyes. I think she’s Portuguese. She seems to love her job, but then again she seems on another planet of joy. Maybe she’s on something, but I don’t think so. She’s one of those high-on-life types, but not in an annoying way. She just seems genuinely nice and makes everyone else feel a little bit better about things after interacting with her. I told myself to email customer services when I get home to tell them what a good job she does. People like that are rare and should be celebrated, I told myself. Life’s good people. My own life may be a shambles but I can do something nice for a stranger. Like a keyboard Amelie without the cutesy French bob, secretly dispatching pure and decent energy back out into the world, even if it was hardly flowing in my direction.
The mental health Instagrammers are always talking about paying it forward. Make yourself feel good by doing something good for another person without any expectation of a reward.
I thought I’d start by setting myself a real challenge: Taking my Dad out for dinner. Nothing too fancy, but neither McDonald’s either. We went to a middle-ground restaurant; the sort of place most go to without a second thought about whether they can afford it or not.
For starters, we had a round of “Are you sure you can afford this, Kitty? What is your rent these days? You sure you don’t want to move back home with me?” Of course, I didn’t tell my Dad how extortionate my rent is. He’s sharp enough to keep up with the news and how water, gas and electricity companies are screwing us all in the name of profit and bonuses. And I think he knows how sky-high my rent is because he asked me three times. But moving back in with my Dad? At fifty-five? I just… couldn’t.
The main course was a sizzling “Any thoughts of finding a partner?” with a side order of “You could always adopt a child if you’re too old to have children now.” I took the deepest of breaths and explained calmly that I didn’t need a man to validate my life. I am as good a person whether I am married or single. He accused me, jokingly I think, of sounding like “one of those lefty bra burners.” I remind myself that he’s my Dad and doesn’t mean to antagonise me. He just cares.
‘I am not anti-men. I would like to be with someone. But it’s not like my very existence depends on whether I am married with kids or not.’ He probably thinks I’m a lesbian if he didn’t have his suspicions already. But that’s the only logical leap to explain my justifications.
By the time dessert arrived, Dad was laying it on thick about his concern for my happiness. He only wanted to see me happy. Settled. How that’s all Mum wanted for me. How he worries about who will look after me after he shuffles off the mortal coil. I told him ‘I’ve got this far on my own. I’ll be okay.’
Dad paid for the meal, gave me an awkward hug/pat on the shoulder, told me to take care of myself and went home in a taxi as I waited thirty minutes for the bus thinking ‘If I did live with Dad, I’d be home by now.’
As I decompressed from the evening’s stress, sitting on my small sofa in my poky living room, all I could think about was how right he was. That little boy in the supermarket, asking his Dad for more time together.
More time.
All I wanted was more time, and it was passing faster with every year. I still felt like an awkward fourteen-year-old, but my reflection in the mirror told a different story. The skin on my face losing its tautness. My disappointed eyes that have seen too much of what life had to offer me, which wasn’t much. And the hair. The craziness of random rogue hairs burrowing out of places that no hair should ever be aware of. That one wiry hair just under my chin - my beard hair, as I call it. The one I have to remove for fear of looking like a stomach-turning old bag.
I don’t want to be old yet. I know I’m going to be because that’s life. Just not yet. I’m not done yet. I’m still here, waiting for… something. Living in hope of that moment when it finally clicks and I feel that freedom to go “Ah! This is what I’ve been waiting for all this time!” This cannot be it.
I doom scrolled through my positive encouragements of Insta-influencers; all of them telling me I’ve got this. I can do it. I can be the person I always was had I given them the chance. Be myself. With no expectations. Live in a place of an open heart. My burnt-fingered cynicism reminded me that this is how these people make their money.
But as I chewed on my Christmas-flavoured Cornish pasty (two months too early), channel hopping through weirdo late-night television which seemed to be full of people exposing themselves physically or psychologically, I made a promise to myself. To quit the negativity and start again. To be the person people needed, even if they didn’t instantly recognise it.
I was still there. Alive. What was I waiting for?
Copyright © 2024 Andrew Wright