April 14
Today I finally put an end to our afternoon tea. Im waiting for Mark to get home from work, and I havent even started on dinner yet. I told Georgia to give her husband a kiss and ring me as soon as they nail down their travel dates theyre planning to pop over to see their daughter in Berlin, which means we might actually meet up soon. I cant help but sigh about how far away Violet lives now; everythings become so expensive and arranging a visit feels like a fulltime job. At least we can still have a proper chat over the phone.
Even though our meetings are few and our lives have taken wildly different paths, the conversation always slips back into place as if there had never been a pause. Most of the friendships Ive made after moving abroad in my thirties feel more forced; we attend the same festivals, travel to the same places, yet were always scrambling for something to say. Ive never been one for empty chatter, and Georgia certainly shares that sentiment.
Violet and I have known each other since primary school, but the real bond only blossomed after I left Russia. Back then we were just two girls drifting in our own little worlds, barely intersecting, while I was forever dreaming of a true friend the kind you read about in novels. Writers arent lying when they say life can be just as dramatic as any story, provided it isnt pure fantasy.
Theres that old joke that women dont have friendships, only mateships, while men have solid bonds built over football, helping each other move, talking politics, maybe borrowing a few quid. Men never pour their souls out to each other; at best they gripe about wives or bosses. Ive always split female friendships into acquaintances and real friends. The former are plenty you can chat about fashion, health, books, movies, travel, home life, children, ageing parents but it stays on the surface. A real friend, however, is someone who accepts you just as you are, who you can unload your deepest secrets on without fear of ridicule, who will rush to your side at a moments notice, bottle in hand or not, and sit with you for hours while you replay the same story in a dozen variations, wiping away tears and sniffles as needed.
I knew such a friend existed because I would have acted that way myself. Sometimes I couldnt answer that midnight knock first my parents, then my husband would stop me but otherwise Ive always been ready to lend a hand. Thats what I spent years searching for, and finally found in Violet after a long, thorny road.
Our path wasnt smooth. I once fell out with my downstairs neighbour, a girl Id known almost from birth, over a broken doll that her parents had given her for her birthday. A cousin, visiting from abroad, ruined the doll by soaking it in water during a game of house. I was blamed, she didnt defend me, and that was the end of that friendship. Later, a friend in the States walked out over a trivial matter, despite years of emigrant hardships and my sincere apologies. Then there was Bella the false friend who entered our lives in second grade.
Bella burst onto the scene that year, petite and plump, with tightly coiled hair woven into a thick braid. She lacked conventional beauty, but she made up for it with boundless energy, confidence, and a laugh that some found infectious while others thought it more like a snort. We became fast friends, living on the same block and commuting home together on the tube. We started a little ritual: each morning on the way to the station wed buy a scoop of raspberry ripple icecream from a kiosk, served in a paper cone. I usually paid because Bellas mother gave her just £1 a week for all expenses, saying, Heres your allowance dont ever deny yourself. Between friends, I felt petty calculations were unnecessary.
That daily icecream treat seemed to toughen us up; colds passed us by, and our parents even signed us up for a swimming club we attended together after school. We shared countless activities: cinema trips, theatre outings, gallery visits (if I disliked an artist, Bella would declare I was simply not mature enough yet), pioneer camps, dance and art classes. I loved drawing, but I quit after Bella criticised my painted quail, which looked more like a cow to her, yet she claimed oil paint made it superior.
In primary school we both fell for the same boy, then broke our hearts simultaneously. I thought wed both moved on, but Bella kept a secret crush and hoped for reciprocity. My grandmother would shake her head, warning, Stay away from that Bella, shell only bring you jealousy. Id retort, You dont understand, Gran were true friends! I was ready to cede leadership, accept her firm judgments, tolerate her chronic lateness all minor things compared with the conviction that shed be my rock.
Bella once decided to tell a classmate who was courting me that he wasnt right for me, claiming she was protecting me. I dismissed it as overprotectiveness. Yet when my mother, a therapist, harshly scolded me for a close bond with that same classmate, Bella soothed my tears and stood up for me. Our friendship survived university, various temptations, weddings where we each were the others maid of honour, and the birth of our first children.
Eventually we drifted: I moved to the United States, Bella to Israel, and contact dwindled to a few annual postcards. We unexpectedly reunited in Amsterdam. The initial thrill quickly gave way to bewilderment when I learned Bella had visited America several times over the years without ever letting me know. She bragged about a fling with my most devoted admirer, trying to spill intimate details I never wanted to hear. It stung, but the reunion was brightened when Vera, now living in London, joined us, and old grievances were tucked away, if not forgotten.
A few more years passed with sporadic emails and occasional meetups. Bella divorced and kept looking for a new partner; my marriage was strained, though our children grew. Eventually the strain became unbearable. An old acquaintance resurfaced, we exchanged letters, then met when I attended his medical conference. We reminisced, flirted, and it all ended predictably in a night together. A tentative affair began. I wasnt proud, but life suddenly had new colours, and I didnt want to stop.
Our meetings were rare sometimes I managed to slip away for a conference, other times he was on a business trip. One day he suggested meeting in Israel, where both of our families lived, and asked Bella to keep things covered. The plan was shaky from the start, but we went for it. Bella threw her full support behind it, even trying to flirt with him while I was away, but she was promptly dismissed. She accompanied us to stylish galleries, expensive restaurants (she chose the venue, he footed the bill). The romance seemed perfect, so we booked a threeday seaside escape to Eilat.
Bella began packing, hoping to be invited along, but he refused to pay for her. Why need a blacksmith? he asked logically, leaving Bella stranded in Jerusalem, making up excuses when her husband called. The three days flew by, and when the sunkissed lovers returned to Jerusalem, Bellas phone rang. Your husband called last night, she blurted. He caught me off guard, I was panicking, tried to calm him all night, but he seemed to know everything already. Better that way, or youd never have made a decision. The aftermath was a weary return home, a grueling reconciliation with my husband, and a marriage patched together for a few more years.
As for Bella she never admitted any fault, apparently convinced shed done me a favour. I stopped bringing up the painful episode. We still exchange occasional messages, but we never invited each other to each others weddings again, and we havent seen one another since. The phone buzzed with a notification from Google Photos: a fresh collage of pictures of Bella, Vera, and me over the years of trips and gatherings. Theyre reading our thoughts now, I thought with a wry smile, then indulged in the nostalgia of those snapshots. In the end, I reminded myself that true friendship does exist, and that thought brought a small, comforting relief.
