Dany Atkins - Fractured

Sarah had been extremely careful and cautious when filling me in on news of our old group of friends. From visits to her parents and through the town grapevine she knew that after uni Trevor had returned to Great Bishopsford and was currently living with his girlfriend, who Sarah had yet to meet, and was working as a Branch Manager in a bank. I found it hard to imagine the rock-band guitar-playing Trev of my teenage years in such a sedate and respectable lifestyle.

Phil was apparently still living the life of a nomad. He’d taken a gap year after university which had grown into a second year of basically bumming around the world. This wandering lifestyle had somehow metamorphosised into a job as a freelance photographer, and although his family still lived in the area, Phil apparently spent little time there between assignments, often electing those which sent him abroad for months at a time. Sarah said that when their paths had crossed, she sensed in him a restlessness that seemed to explain his lifestyle and reluctance to settle in any one place.

And then there was Matt . . . and of course Cathy, for now their histories were inextricably linked. I could tell how hard it had been for Sarah to let me know about them. How carefully she had chosen her words, picking just the right phrase, uncertain of the pain she might be inflicting. It must be just over eighteen months since she had told me that Cathy and my ex-boyfriend were now an item. As the words had settled down the phone lines between us, I had waited for any shard of pain that this news would bring. There was none; merely surprise. And not surprise that those two unbelievably beautiful people were together, just surprise that it had taken Cathy this long to achieve her objective.

I pushed this thought away, as I had when Sarah had first broken the news to me about their relationship. If I allowed myself to think of Matt, then I would be opening the door to our own sad little story and break-up and that would lead to the reasons . . . and that would lead me somewhere I never allowed my thoughts to go.

As the clusters of houses and built-up areas gradually gave way to fields and open spaces, I could feel a palpable tension beginning to rise inside me. I swallowed it back down with a mouthful of bitter revolting coffee bought from the buffet car and tried to focus instead on the purpose of the visit. This was Sarah’s weekend; Sarah’s big day; I couldn’t allow myself to ruin this time for her by having her worry about how I was going to cope with being home again.

That thought pulled me up sharply, home again. Was it really my home, was that how I still thought of it? Well I hadn’t lived there for five years, so technically no, it was not. But then nowhere else actually felt that it deserved that title either. Dad’s current address in North Devon, where we had moved during the long slow months of my recovery, was his home, not mine, despite the fact that I had lived there for almost two years. I suppose my small London flat was home, but it had always felt temporary and transient, chosen for its closeness to the convenient tube line making getting to work easier, rather than any emotional attachment to the building. Also, it was hard to form a deep emotional attachment to a rental property over a somewhat dilapidated laundrette in one of London’s less salubrious locations. I should have moved on when I had earned my first salary increase, should certainly have considered it by the next one, but there was a comfort in the known and familiar, however lacking in style it might be. In my more light-hearted moments I would refer to my flat as shabby-chic, but without the chic. That about summed it up.

As the train’s rhythm began to slow, I realised that the two-hour journey had passed much more speedily than I would have liked and when the androgynous voice of the tannoy announced ‘The next stop is Great Bishopsford’ I was alarmed to discover I was no more ready to face my return than I had been any time in the last five years. As the train shuddered to a halt, I got to my feet and reached up to retrieve my small overnight bag from the overhead rack.

‘Allow me,’ a man’s voice offered from behind me, and before I could decline, strong leather-clad arms reached up and lifted down the small case. As I looked up to thank the stranger I saw the quickly disguised look of sympathy on his face as he took in the jagged scar that became visible as I raised my head. I smiled briefly in thanks and lowered my head, allowing the thick curtain of hair to cover the worst of my marked face. It was a habit I had developed over time, it was easier to hide the scar than to have to deal with people’s reaction to it. Those who weren’t shocked into silence might be tempted to ask about its origins and I had made a decision many years ago never to speak of it if at all possible. And perhaps that was what was scaring me so badly about being back home. Because how would the old group of friends get through this weekend without speaking of something so cataclysmic that it had altered each of our lives in some way?

I caught a taxi from the station, even though it was only a short walk to the hotel where I would be staying. But the walk would have taken me past our old school, and I wasn’t prepared yet for the memories taking that route might elicit. Inside the leather-seated interior of the cab, I resolutely kept my gaze firmly fixed on my knees and the floor and tried to avoid the inevitable for a little while longer.

The hotel room was clean and impersonal. No memories here as I’d never set foot in the building before, so that was fine. It took all of three minutes to unpack my small bag. I glanced at the bedside radio alarm clock. It was nearly lunchtime and I toyed with the idea of going down to the hotel bar for a sandwich, but at the last moment lost my nerve and phoned down for room service. ‘Baby steps,’ I told myself encouragingly, ‘Just take little baby steps and you’ll be fine.’ My reflection looked back at me doubtfully from the dressing-table mirror. If I couldn’t even convince myself, how on earth was I going to get through the next seventy-two hours?

After I’d eaten, I called Sarah on my mobile to let her know I had arrived. I heard the relief in her voice and was dismayed that she had not been entirely certain I was really going to come. That strengthened my resolve to be strong, if only for her sake.

‘Come over now, I don’t want to wait till tonight to see you.’ Her enthusiasm made me smile, but then Sarah always had. I just hoped Dave realised how lucky he was getting to spend his entire future with such a special person.

‘Maybe in a little while,’ I promised. ‘And you have me at your disposal all day tomorrow, so we’ll get plenty of time to talk before you become an old married lady.’ She groaned at my words and uttered a very unladylike phrase in response.

‘Actually,’ I continued ‘I think I’ll take a little walk this afternoon. See if I can face up to some of those old memories after all.’

‘Fancy some company?’ I smiled at her offer. She must have a thousand-and-one things to do, yet I knew she’d abandon all of them in a heartbeat if I said ‘yes’.

‘No, that’s OK,’ I replied, ‘I think I might do this better on my own, and anyway I’m getting a bit of headache,’ I brought my hand up to rub distractedly between my brows, as I realised this last was true, ‘So the fresh air will do me good.’

‘Well don’t walk so far that you’ll be too exhausted for my hen dinner tonight.’

‘As if I’d be allowed to miss that! Are you doing the L plates and tiara costume bit?’

‘No,’ came the swift response in mock indignation, ‘I told you before, this is no tacky girly shin-dig. This is a mixed, grown-up and sophisticated dinner with all of my oldest friends, to celebrate my departure from spinsterhood. By the way, you have arranged a stripper for me haven’t you?’