There are acquaintances who meet over a cup of tea, and then there are true friends who stand by each other for a lifetime. My own tale belongs to the latter.
Very well, thats enough for today, I said, smiling, as I hung up. Our dear Michael will be home from the office soon, and I have yet to start on dinner. Do give your husband a kiss and ring him straightaway once you settle on the dates of your return! My friend Eleanor and her husband were about to travel to see their daughter in France, which meant we might see each other again before long.
Its a shame how far away Charlotte lives now, and how expensive it has become to meet, Eleanor lamented once more. At least the telephone lets us chatter as much as we like. Though our meetings were few and our lives ran on very different tracks, conversation always fell into step as if it had never paused. Most of the friendships I forged after moving abroad in my thirties never quite managed that; we attended the same galas, visited the same resorts, yet soon ran out of fresh topics. I despised hollow smalltalk and never tolerated it.
Eleanor and I had known each other since the first year of school, but the real bond only blossomed after I left Britain. In school we each kept to our own little world, barely crossing paths, though I always dreamed of a true companiona friend straight out of the novels, genuine and steadfast. Writers, after all, claim they only borrow from life, unless theyre spinning fairy tales.
There is a common belief, bolstered by countless jokes, that women do not have true friendships, only tightknit male comrades. But what is a male bond anyway? A football match, a favor moving heavy boxes, a chat about politics, perhaps a loan of cash they never pour their souls out to each other, at most they gripe about a spouse or a boss. Womens friendships, in my view, fall into two categories: acquaintances and close friends.
Acquaintances are many; with them you can chat about anything and nothing, but only on the surfacefashion, health, beauty, books, films, travel, home life, raising children, caring for ageing parents. A close friend, however, is someone you love for who you are, who will listen to your deepest secrets without a smirk, who will rush to your side at a moments notice, rain or shine, with or without a bottle of wine, and will sit with you for hours listening to the same tale in countless variations, wiping away your tears.
I was certain such a friend existed, because I would have acted exactly like that myself. Sometimes, at night, my own parents or my husband would refuse to let me answer a frantic call, but otherwise I was always ready to lend a hand. After a long, thorny road, I finally discovered that friend in Eleanor.
Our early missteps were numerous. I once quarreled with the neighbour on my landingfloorsomeone Id known almost since childhoodover a broken walkalong doll that her parents had given her for her birthday. A cousin, visiting, had soaked the doll while playing motheranddaughter, and I was blamed. She never defended me, and that episode ended our friendship. Later, an American friend snapped over a trivial grievance, cutting off contact despite years of hardship we had endured together in exile and my heartfelt apologies.
The star of that falsefriend group was Beatrice. She entered our secondgrade class and slipped in without fuss. Small and plump, with tightly coiled hair bound into a thick braid, she compensated for her lack of conventional beauty with boundless energy, confidence, and a laugh that some called infectious, others likened to a boisterous snort. We bonded quickly because we lived on the same street and rode the same tube home. Every day we bought a singlescoop vanilla icecream in a wafer cup from a stall near the station. I usually paid, as Beatrices mother gave her a single pound each week with the words, Heres your allowancespend it as you wish. I believed friends should not keep petty accounts.
Our daily icecream habit seemed to toughen us; colds rarely visited, and our parents even enrolled us together in a swimming club. We went to the cinema, theatre, and galleries; if I disliked a painter or a work, Beatrice would assert authority, declaring I simply wasnt mature enough yet. We attended pioneer camps, joined dance and drawing circles. I loved drawing but quit after Beatrice criticised my sketch of a quail, insisting my bird resembled a cow but, being rendered in oil, was superior.
Both of us fell for the same boy in primary school and broke up with him simultaneouslywell, I thought so until I learned Beatrice still nursed secret feelings for him. My grandmother would shake her head and warn, Stay away from that Beatrice, shell be jealous. I would retort, Grandma, you dont understandwere true friends! I was prepared to cede leadership, accept her absolute judgments, endure perpetual lateness; these seemed trivial compared to the certainty that she would be my rock if needed.
Beatrice once informed a classmate, who had shown interest in me, that he was not suitable and should leave me alone. I dismissed this as overprotectiveness. Yet when my mother, a psychologist, chastised me for a close relationship with that boy, Beatrice soothed my tears and stood up for me.
Our friendship survived university, each joining different societies and facing temptations, weddings where each was the others maid of honour, and the birth of our first children. Then we scattered: I moved to the United States, Beatrice to Israel, and communication dwindled for years.
We met again unexpectedly on neutral groundin Amsterdam. Initial euphoria gave way to puzzlement when I learned Beatrice had visited America many times since my departure but never thought to let me know. She boasted about having begun a romance with my most ardent admirer, even attempting to sprinkle intimate details I never wanted to hear. It wounded, but the reunion was brightened when our old friend Violet, who had arrived from Moscow, joined us, and soon all old grievances, if not forgotten, were deeply buried.
Years of languid correspondence and occasional meetings followed. Beatrice divorced and kept searching for a new partner; my own marriage was faltering, though our children grew, and we told ourselves we could simply endure. Eventually it became unbearable.
A former acquaintance resurfaced, we wrote, met when I travelled to his city for a medical conference, reminisced about the past, and the night ended, as often does, in bed. A brief affair began. I was ashamed, yet life suddenly wore new colours, and I could notor did not wish tostop. Our encounters were rare: sometimes I escaped to a conference, sometimes he was on a business trip.
One day my lover suggested a perfect planto meet in Israel, where both of us had relatives, hoping Beatrice would cover the rear. The scheme was shaky from the start, but we took the risk. Beatrice embraced it wholeheartedly, approving the lover (Thats what you need, not that chap you married!), even trying to intervene while I was away, only to be dismissed.
We toured fashionable galleries, dined in expensive restaurants (she chose the venues, he paid), and everything seemed fine, so we decided to spend three days on the Red Sea coast at Eilat. Beatrice began packing, assuming she would be invited, but the lover refused to fund her travel. Why do we need a blacksmith? he asked sensibly, and Beatrice was left in Jerusalem, inventing excuses should his wife call.
Three days flew by. As the sunkissed lovers returned to Jerusalem, my lovers phone rang. Your husband called me last night, Beatrice blurted, he trapped me suddenly, I was confused, I tried all night to calm him, but he seemed to know everything already. Better that way, otherwise youd never have decided. The aftermath was a nightmare of sleepless nights, a fragile marriage patched together for a few more years.
And what of the friendship? Beatrice never admitted any fault, perhaps believing she had done me a favour. I never raised the subject again. We still exchange occasional messages, but we no longer invite each other to subsequent weddings, and we rarely see one another.
One evening my phone chimedGoogle Photos had compiled a fresh montage of pictures of Eleanor, Violet, and me spanning years of trips and gatherings. Theyre reading our thoughts now, I thought wryly, yet I lingered over the images, letting nostalgia wash over me. At last, I concluded, there truly is such a thing as lasting friendship.
