Female friendships come in two flavours the ones you chat over coffee, and the ones that last a lifetime.
Agatha Morgan had a story of her own.
Alright, thatll be it for today. Hell be home from the office soon, and I havent even started dinner yet. And you, give your husband a kiss and ring him as soon as youve sorted your travel dates, Agatha said, ending the call in a bright mood. Her friends husband was due to visit their daughter in Berlin, meaning a real chance to meet up in the near future.
Its such a shame Vera lives so far away now. Its become expensive and difficult to get together, the countess complained again. At least we can still have a good chinwag over the phone.
Even though their meetings were rare and their lifestyles diverged, they always slipped back into conversation as if theyd never stopped. Most of Agathas other friendships, forged after she emigrated in middle age, never felt that effortless. One would think that a shared social circle, the same festivals, the same holiday destinations would guarantee plenty to talk about yet it rarely did. Agatha despised hollow smalltalk; she preferred genuine exchange.
Agatha and Verity had known each other since the first year of school, but true friendship only blossomed after Verity left England. At school they kept to their own little worlds, barely overlapping, while Agatha always longed for a proper friend the kind you read about in novels.
Writers arent lying when they say they draw from life, unless theyre dealing in fairytales. There is a common belief, backed by countless jokes, that women dont really have friendships; only men have sturdy bonds. But what does a male friendship look like? Going to a football match together, helping each other move furniture, chatting about politics, maybe lending a few quid they never pour their souls out to each other. At worst theyll gripe about a spouse or a boss.
Agatha divided womens friendships into chums and true friends. She had plenty of chums with whom she could discuss fashion, health, books, movies, travel, home life, parenting and caring for ageing parents always on a superficial level. A true friend, however, is someone you can be completely yourself with, spill your deepest secrets without fearing mockery, and rely on for unwavering support. Its the person who will rush to your door at a moments notice, rain or shine, bottle in hand or not, and listen to the same story in countless variations, dabbing away your sniffles and tears.
Agatha was convinced such a friend existed because she would act that way herself. Sometimes a midnight call wasnt possible first her parents, then her husband would object but otherwise she was always ready to lend a hand. After a long, winding road she finally found that in Verity.
There had been missteps along the way. Once she fell out with her downstairs neighbour, a girl shed known almost from birth, over a broken, watersoaked doll the neighbours cousin had ruined while playing house. Verity didnt stand up for her, and that friendship ended. Later, a friend in America, hurt over a trivial matter, cut off all contact despite years of shared hardship and sincere apologies from Agatha.
Among the pretenders, Beatrice shone brightest. Beatrice entered their class in the second year, instantly fitting in. She was short, stout, with tightly coiled hair braided into a thick plait. Where she lacked conventional beauty, she made up with boundless energy, confidence, and a laugh that some called infectious, others described as a guffaw.
The girls clicked quickly, living on the same block and riding the tube home together. They started a little ritual: each afternoon on the way to the station theyd buy a wafflecone icecream with a pink swirl from a stall. Beatrice almost never paid; her mum gave her a single pound each week with the words, Heres your allowance dont hold back. Agatha, however, believed friends shouldnt keep tabs on petty debts.
Their daily icecream habit seemed to toughen them up; colds rarely bothered them, and their parents enrolled them in a swimming club they both attended after school. They went to the cinema, the theatre, and exhibitions together (if Agatha disliked a particular artist, Beatrice would declare, You just havent grown into it yet). They camped at youthhostels, joined dance and art classes. Agatha loved drawing but quit after Beatrice criticised a painted quail that looked more like a cow, insisting oil paint was the only proper medium.
Both fell for the same boy in primary school, then simultaneously lost interest at least Agatha thought so, until she discovered Beatrice still harboured feelings for him. Their parents were busy, and their grandmother would warn, Stay away from that Beatrice; shes jealous. Agatha would retort, You dont understand, were true friends!
Agatha was ready to concede leadership, tolerate chronic lateness, and swallow minor slights, all because she trusted that Beatrice would be a rock for her. Yet Beatrice once meddled, telling a classmate who was courting Agatha that he wasnt right for her. Agatha chalked it up to overprotectiveness. Later, when Agathas mother, a psychologist, scolded her for a close bond with a fellow student, Beatrice soothed her crying friend and defended her fiercely.
Their friendship survived university choices, temptations, weddings (each served as the others maid of honour), and the birth of their first children. Then they drifted: Agatha moved to New York, Beatrice to Tel Aviv, and contact dwindled for years. They unexpectedly reunited in Amsterdam. The initial thrill gave way to Agathas puzzlement when she learned Beatrice had visited New York several times but never bothered to let her know, even bragging about a fling with Agathas most devoted admirer.
The sting was sharp, but the reunion also brought Vera from Manchester, and old grievances were either forgotten or deeply buried. A few more years passed with occasional letters and a couple of meetups. By then Beatrice was divorced and perpetually searching for a new partner, while Agathas marriage was on the rocks, though the children kept growing, and they told themselves they just had to endure.
Eventually things became unbearable. A former acquaintance reentered Agathas life; they began emailing, met when she attended his medical conference, reminisced, and the affair ended, predictably, in bed. A clandestine romance sparked. Agatha didnt take pride in it, but her life suddenly brightened, and she couldnt, nor wanted to, stop it. Their meetings were sparse she would slip away for a conference, he would be away on business.
One day the lover suggested a grand plan: meet in Israel, where both had relatives. Beatrice was to cover the backup. The scheme was shaky from the start, but they took the risk. Beatrice threw herself into it, approving the lover (Thats the man you need, not that bloke you married!), even trying to sneak in while Agatha was out, only to be rebuked. She accompanied them to chic galleries, pricey restaurants (she chose, he paid). Everything went smoothly until the lovers booked a threeday seaside trip to Eilat. Beatrice packed a suitcase, hoping to be invited, but the lover refused to foot her fare.
Why do we need a blacksmith? he asked, and left Beatrice in Jerusalem, inventing excuses for his spouses calls. The three days flew by, and when the sunkissed lovers returned to Jerusalem, Agathas husband called late at night, catching her offguard. He caught me by surprise, I panicked, tried to calm him all night, but he seemed to know everything already, she later recounted. Better that way, or youd never have decided.
The aftermath was a weary, drawnout reconciliation with her husband, a barelystitched marriage lasting a few more years, and a friendship that felt as fragile as glass. Beatrice never admitted any guilt, perhaps believing shed done Agatha a favour. Agatha stopped bringing up the painful episode.
They still exchange occasional messages, but they never invited each other to subsequent weddings, and they no longer meet. One day Agathas phone pinged: Google Photos had compiled a new album of her and Veras pictures from years of trips. They can read our thoughts now, she mused with a mix of irritation and amusement, then lingered over the images, smiling at the memories.
In the quiet after, she thought, True friendship does exist. And she realised that the real treasure of any bond is not how often you meet, but how safely you can lay your heart down, knowing someone will always be there to catch it. The lesson lingered: genuine connections survive distance, time, and even betrayal, because they are built on honesty, loyalty, and the willingness to stand by each other, no matter what.
