Eleanor Whitmore stared at the buzzing phone, the clock ticking toward the moment her husband would stumble home from the office. Alright, thats it for today, she said, her tone light but edged with fatigue. Dinners still on the backburner, and you need to kiss your boyfriend and ring me the second you nail down your arrival dates! Her friends husband was due to swing by Paris to see their daughter, which meant a real chance for Eleanor and Claire to meet soon.
Its a shame how far Claire lives now, Eleanor sighed, the words heavy with the cost of flights and the strain of schedules. At least we can gab over the phone. Their bond had survived the years apart, the conversations flowing as if theyd never paused. Most of the women Eleanor met after emigrating in her thirties never managed that seamless rhythm. The same circles, the same events, the same holiday spots ought to have supplied endless materialbut often theyd have to wrestle words from thin air, and Eleanor detested empty chatter.
Eleanor and Claire had known each other since primary school, yet true friendship blossomed only after Eleanors family left England. Back then each girl spun in her own little world, barely crossing paths, while Eleanor dreamed of a companion straight out of the novelsreal, unpretentious. Writers never lie; they lift life, not fantasy.
Theres a common joke that women dont have friendships, only brotherly camaraderie. But whats brotherhood? A football match, a lift, a political debate, maybe a loan. They never pour out their souls. At most they gripe about wives or bosses. Eleanor split friendships into two tiers. Friends were plentiful, topics shallowfashion, health, books, travel, home, kids, aging parents. A true mate, though, was the one you could lay your heart bare to without fear of mockery, who would sprint to your door at a moments notice, bottle or no bottle, and sit with you for hours, wiping your tears and laughing at the same story in a dozen variations.
She knew such a mate existed because she would have been that person herself. Occasionally, a midnight call couldnt be answeredfirst her parents, then her husband. Otherwise she was always ready to lend a hand. After a long, twisted road, she finally found that steadfast friend in Claire.
There were missteps. A neighbour from the block, whod been a childhood confidante, fell out with her over a broken walking dolla birthday gift that a visiting cousin had soaked in water while playing house. The blame landed on Eleanor, and Claire never defended her, ending that bond. Later, a friend in the United States snapped over a trivial slight, cutting off communication despite years of shared hardship and heartfelt apologies.
The star of that falsefriend troupe was Lily Hart. Lily entered Eleanors life in second grade, slipping into the schools tightknit group. Short, plump, with a thick braid of wildly curly hair, she compensated for any lack of conventional beauty with boundless energy, selfassurance, and a laugh that some called infectious, others described as a snort. The girls clicked instantly, living on the same street and taking the same tube home. They started a ritual: each afternoon, a wafercone swirl of raspberry icecream from a market stall, usually paid for by Eleanor because Lilys mother handed her just a single pound a week with the admonition, Dont skimp on anything. Eleanor insisted that between true mates, petty accounting had no place.
That daily scoop hardened their oncefragile bodies; colds missed them, and their parents even enrolled them in the same swimming club. Together they hit cinemas, theatres, galleries; if Eleanor balked at a painter, Lily would declare, You just dont get it yet. They camped at youth retreats, joined dance and art classes. Eleanor loved drawing but quit after Lily sniped at her quail sketch, calling it a cow painted in oil and therefore superior.
Both fell for the same boy in primary school, broke hearts together, and later Lily confessed shed still nursed secret feelingsa revelation Eleanor shrugged off, assuming Lilys protective nature covered it. Their grandmother warned, Stay away from Lily; shes jealous, to which Lily retorted, You dont understand, were real mates! Eleanor would surrender the lead, accept Lilys decisive judgments, tolerate chronic latenessall trivial compared with the unwavering belief that Lily would be a rock if needed.
One day Lily overstepped, telling a classmate who was courting Eleanor that he wasnt right for her. Eleanor chalked it up to Lilys overprotectiveness. Later, when Eleanors psychologist mother scolded her for a close bond with a fellow student, Lily soothed her, standing firm in defense.
Their friendship survived university splits, separate careers, marriages where each served as the others witness, and the birth of first children. Then the world scattered them: Eleanor to America, Lily to Israel. Contact dwindled to a few sporadic emails. An unexpected reunion in Amsterdam sparked initial exhilaration, quickly clouded by Eleanors puzzlementLily had visited the States multiple times yet never mentioned it. The sting deepened as Lily bragged about a fling with Eleanors most steadfast admirer, edging toward intimate details Eleanor didnt want to hear. The tension was sharp, but a surprise visitor, Claire, fresh from Moscow, joined them, and old grievances slipped into the shadows, never fully erased but buried deep.
Years of lazy correspondence and occasional meetups followed. Lilys marriage dissolved; she chased new partners while Eleanors own marriage faltered, though children grew, and both convinced themselves they could simply endure. Eventually the strain became unbearable. An old acquaintance resurfaced, letters turned into a rendezvous at a medical conference, reminiscences flowed, and, as often happens, the night ended in a bed. A secret affair sparked. Eleanor felt no pride, yet the world brightened with illicit hues she couldnt or wouldnt dim.
Their meetings were rareconference escapes, business trips. The lover proposed a daring plan: a secret tryst in Israel, where both had family, with Lily covering the rear. The scheme was shaky from the start, but they took the risk. Lily cheered, Thats the sort of man you need, not the bloke you married! She even tried to sneak into Eleanors house while she was out, only to be caught and dismissed.
They roamed upscale galleries and pricey restaurantsLily chose the spots, he footed the bill. Everything ran smoothly until the lovers booked a threeday getaway to Eilat. Lily packed, hoping to be invited, but the man refused to fund her travel. Why do we need a blacksmith? he asked, and Lily was left in Jerusalem, improvising excuses for a ringing spouse.
Three days vanished in a flash. As the sunsoaked couple returned to Jerusalem, Lilys phone rang. Your husband called last night, she blurted, voice trembling. He caught me off guard, I tried to calm him all night, but he already knew everything. She shrugged, Better that way; otherwise youd never have decided. The fallout was a sleepless night, a strained reconciliation with her husband, and a marriage patched together for a few more years.
What about the friend? Eleanor wondered. Lily claimed no guilt, perhaps believing shed done Eleanor a favor. Eleanor never spoke of the wound again. They still exchanged occasional messages, but never reinvited each other to weddings, and their paths diverged. One day a notification pingedGoogle Photos had assembled a collage of Eleanor, Claire, and Lily over the years of trips and reunions. Theyre reading our minds now, Eleanor muttered, then let herself linger over the images, a bittersweet smile forming. Still, true friendship does exist, she whispered, relief softening the ache.
