Ladies friendship comes in two flavours a quick cuppa with a mate, or a lifelong bond that survives everything from bad hair days to broken WiFi.
Agatha Maggie Smith had her own tale to tell.
Alright, love, thats it for today. The boss will be home soon, and I havent even started on dinner. And you, give your husband a kiss and ring as soon as you sort out the travel dates! Maggie ended the call in a bright mood. Her friends husband was planning to visit their daughter in France, so a real chance to meet up was on the horizon.
Its such a shame Vera lives so far away now and its gotten so expensive and tricky to see each other, sighed Lady Imogen Brown for the umpteenth time. At least we can chat on the phone and have a proper natter.
Even though their meetings were rare and their lifestyles couldnt have been more different, the conversation always clicked, as if nothing had ever paused. Most of the mates Maggie made after moving abroad in her thirties never managed that. Youd think a shared social circle the same parties, the same holidays would generate endless material, but nope. Too often they had to force a laugh, and Maggie had no patience for empty chatter.
Maggie and Imogen had known each other since primary school, but true friendship only blossomed after Maggies family left the UK. Back then, everyone kept to their own little worlds, barely intersecting, though Maggie always dreamed of a proper PAL. You know, the kind from the novels real and steadfast.
Writers never lie; they take it from life unless theyre cranking out fairy tales.
Theres a popular belief, a raft of jokes even, that women dont have friendships, only solid male bonds. But whats a male bond anyway? Going to football together, helping move heavy furniture, chatting politics, maybe borrowing a tenner Theyll never pour their souls out to each other. At most theyll gripe about a spouse or a boss.
Maggie split female friendships into two camps: chums and friends. She always had plenty of chums perfect for superficial chats about fashion, health, beauty, books, films, travel, home life, kids, and ageing parents.
A friend, though, is a different beast. Someone youre comfortable being yourself around, wholl listen to your deepest secrets without snickering, and wholl rush to your side at the drop of a hat rain or shine, bottle in hand or not and listen to the same story in a hundred variations while wiping away your sniffles and tears.
Maggie was certain such a friend existed, because shed be the one to act that way. Sure, a midnight rescue wasnt always possible first the kids, then the husband but otherwise shed always be ready to lend a hand.
After a long, winding road she finally found that in Imogen. Their path wasnt smooth: a neighbour from the flat downstairs, practically a childhood chum, fell out over a broken walking doll that Imogens parents had given her for her birthday. The cousin whod visited ruined the doll by soaking it with water during a teaparty. Imogen was blamed, Maggie didnt defend her, and that friendship fizzled.
Next disappointment came from a pal in the States who, over a trivial spat, cut off all contact despite years of shared hardship in exile and sincere apologies from Maggie.
But the star of the almostfriends squad was Blythe Green.
Blythe arrived in Year Two of primary school, slipping straight into the group. She was petite, plump, with a mass of tight curls wound into a thick braid. Where she lacked conventional beauty, she made up with boundless energy, confidence, and a laugh that some called contagious, others likened to a goats bleat.
The girls clicked quickly they lived on the same block and took the tube home together. They started a ritual: each day on the way to the station theyd buy a scoop of raspberry icecream in a wafer cone from a stall. Blythe usually paid, as she only got a tenpence allowance from her mum each week (Heres your money, dont skimp on anything). Maggie believed friends shouldnt keep petty tabs, so she covered most of the treats.
Daily icecream gave the oncesickly girls a hardier constitution; colds rarely bothered them, and their parents even enrolled them in a swimming club, which they attended together after school.
They did everything together: cinema, theatre, exhibitions (if Maggie disliked a painter, Blythe would authoritatively declare she just wasnt ready for it yet), pioneer camps, dance and art classes. Maggie liked drawing but quit after Blythe tore up a sketch of a quail, calling it a cowlooking mess, even though it was oilpainted and, by Blythes standards, better.
Both fell for the same boy in primary school and dumped him simultaneously or so Maggie thought. Turns out Blythe kept a secret crush on him, hoping for a romance.
Their parents were handsoff, and granny would shake her head, warning Maggie, Stay away from that Blythe, shes jealous. Maggie would retort, You dont understand, were true friends!
Maggie was ready to cede the spotlight, accept Blythes verdicts, endure constant tardiness all trivial compared with the rocksolid belief that a friend would be a mountain for her.
One day Blythe took it upon herself to tell a classmate who was courting Maggie that he wasnt right for her and should back off. Maggie chalked it up to Blythes overprotectiveness and fierce loyalty. Later, when Maggies mother, a psychologist, gave her a stern lecture about a flirtation with a fellow student, Blythe soothed the crying girl and defended her fiercely.
Their friendship survived university, different social circles, temptations, weddings (each was the others maid of honour), and the birth of first children. Then they scattered: Maggie moved to America, Blythe to Israel, and their contact thinned to almost nothing.
They bumped into each other unexpectedly on neutral ground in Amsterdam. The initial thrill gave way to Maggies puzzlement when she learned Blythe had visited the States several times over the years but never mentioned it. Blythe boasted about starting a fling with Maggies most devoted admirer, even flirting with the idea of spilling intimate details that Maggie never wanted to hear.
It hurt, but Amsterdam turned out great: they were joined by Imogen, whod flown in from Moscow, and all grudges, if not forgotten, were neatly tucked away.
A few more years passed with lazy emails and occasional meetups. Blythe divorced and kept hunting for a new partner, while Maggies marriage was on the rocks, though the kids grew, and she thought shed just have to endure it.
Eventually it became unbearable. An old acquaintance resurfaced, emails turned into a reunion at a medical conference, old memories resurfaced, and, predictably, it all ended in bed.
A romance sparked. Maggie wasnt proud, but life suddenly had brighter colours and she couldnt, nor didnt want to, stop.
They managed to see each other rarely a conference here, a business trip there. One day the lover suggested a brilliant plan: meet in Israel, where both had relatives. Blythe was to cover the backhand.
The scheme was shaky from the start, but they took the risk. Maggies friend (yes, Blythe) cheered it on, Thats the sort of man you need, not that bloke you married! She even tried to slide into his bedroom while Maggie wasnt home, only to be sent packing.
They toured galleries, pricey restaurants (her picking the venue, him footing the bill). Everything went swimmingly, so the pair booked a threeday seaside getaway in Eilat. Blythe packed a suitcase, assuming shed be invited, but the lover refused to pay for her travel.
Why do we need a blacksmith? he asked reasonably, leaving Blythe stranded in Jerusalem, inventing excuses for the phone when his wife rang.
Three days zipped by. When the sunkissed lovers returned to Jerusalem, a call from Maggies friend came through: Your husband called me last night. He caught me off guard, I was flustered, tried to calm him all night, but he seemed to know everything already. Better that way, or youd never have made a decision.
Then came the homecoming a nightmare of sleepless talks with the husband, a marriage barely patched together for a few more years.
And the friend? What a friend. She didnt own up to any blame, apparently believing shed done Maggie a favour. Maggie never brought the subject up again.
They still ping each other now and then, but no longer get invited to each others weddings, and they havent met in person for ages.
Maggies phone pinged with a notification: Google Photos had compiled a fresh collage of her and Imogens pictures over the years of trips and reunions.
Theyre reading our thoughts now, she mused, a hint of annoyance, then happily lost herself in the photographs and the memories of adventures.
Still, there is real friendship, she thought with relief.
