28May2025 Diary
Ive always believed there are acquaintances for a cup of tea and true mates for life. My own story with Margaret Whitaker proves that.
Alright, thats it for today, she said, bright as ever. My husbands on his way home from the office, and I havent even started dinner. Give your man a kiss and ring us as soon as youve nailed down your arrival dates!
Margaret ended the call in a wonderful mood; her husband and she were planning a trip to see their daughter in France, so the chance of meeting soon was real.
Its such a shame how far Poppy lives now and how expensive its become to get together, Margaret sighed again, but at least we can chat endlessly on the phone.
Despite the rare facetoface meetings and wildly different lifestyles, we always slipped into conversation as if there had been no pause. Most of the friendships Ive forged since moving abroad in my thirties never felt that natural. Youd think a shared circle, the same festivals, the same holiday spots would generate endless topics, yet we often found ourselves squeezing out anything worthwhile, and I have no patience for empty chatter.
Margaret and I have known each other since primary school, yet our real bond only blossomed after I left Russia. Back then we each kept to our own little world, barely intersecting, though Id always dreamed of a true friend the kind you read about in novels.
Writers never lie; they simply borrow from life unless theyre spinning fairytales, right? Theres a common belief, bolstered by countless jokes, that women dont have genuine friendships, only the sturdy male ones. But what does a male friendship even look like? Going to a football match together, helping each other move heavy furniture, talking politics, maybe borrowing a few quid. Theyll never pour their souls out to each other; at most theyll gripe about a spouse or a boss.
I split female friendship into two categories: chums and mates. Ive always had plenty of chums with whom I could banter about fashion, health, books, movies, travel, home life, childrearing, or caring for ageing parents all on a surface level.
A mate is something else entirely. Its a person you can be completely yourself with, share your deepest secrets without fear of mockery, count on unwavering support, and who will rush to your side at a moments notice, rain or shine, bottle in hand or not, and sit with you for hours while you retell the same story in countless variations, patting away tears and sniffles.
I was certain such a mate existed because I would have behaved exactly that way. Sometimes I couldnt dash to her in the dead of nightfirst my parents, then my husband would hold me backbut otherwise I was always ready to lend a hand. After a long, thorny journey, I finally found that mate in Poppy.
Our path wasnt smooth. I once fell out with a neighbour Id known since we were toddlers over a broken, handmade doll that her parents had given her for her birthday. A visiting cousin ruined the doll by soaking it in water during a game of house. I was blamed, my friend didnt stand up for me, and that chapter closed. Later, a friend in the United States snapped over a trivial snub and ceased all contact despite years of shared hardship in exile and my earnest apologies.
The false mate of the lot was Blythe. She arrived in our class in Year 2 and slipped straight into the group. Petite, with a mass of tight curls braided into a thick plait, she lacked conventional beauty but made up for it with boundless energy, confidence, and a laugh that some called infectious, others likened to a snort.
We bonded quickly, living on the same block and commuting home together on the tube. We started a little ritual: each day on the way to the station wed buy a scoop of softserve ice cream in a wafer cone from a stall, paying most of the time with my pocket money because Blythes mother only gave her a single pound a week, saying, Heres your allowance dont deny yourself anything. I believed that friends shouldnt be petty about money.
That daily treat toughened us up; colds barely touched us, and our parents even enrolled us in the local swimming club, which we attended together after lessons. We did everything side by side: cinema, theatre, exhibitions (if I disliked a painter, Blythe would declare I wasnt mature enough yet), pioneer camps, dance and art classes. I loved painting but quit after Blythe harshly critiqued my quail drawing, insisting my bird more resembled a cow but praising the oil technique shed used.
In primary school we both fell for the same boy and, as far as I thought, dumped him simultaneously. Turns out I was wrong; Blythe kept a secret crush on him, hoping for mutual feelings. Parents were preoccupied, and my grandmother would shake her head, Stay away from that Blythe, shell be jealous, to which Id retort, You dont understand, were true mates!
I was ready to concede leadership, accept unchallenged opinions, tolerate perpetual tardiness all trivial compared with the firm belief that my mate would be a rock for me. Blythe did once intervene, telling a classmate who was pursing me that he wasnt right for me and should leave me alone. I dismissed it as overprotective, yet later, when my mother, a psychologist, scolded me for a close relationship with a fellow student, Blythe soothed my tears and stood up for me.
Our friendship survived university, separate careers, temptations, weddings where we each were the others maid of honour, and the birth of our first children. Then we scattered across the globe: I moved to New York, Blythe to Sydney, and contact faded.
We unexpectedly reunited in Amsterdam. The initial joy turned to bewilderment when I learned Blythe had visited America several times over the years yet never bothered to let me know. She boasted about a fling with my most devoted admirer, even hinting at intimate details I didnt want to hear. It stung, but the meeting was brightened when Poppy flew in from Manchester, and soon all old grievances were, if not forgotten, at least buried deep.
A few more years passed with sporadic emails and occasional reunions. Blythe divorced and kept searching for a new partner; my own marriage was faltering, though our children grew, and we told ourselves we just had to endure.
Then it became unbearable. An old acquaintance resurfaced, we corresponded, met when I attended his medical conference, reminisced, and it all ended, predictably, in bed. A brief affair took off. I wasnt proud, yet life suddenly seemed vivid again, and I didnt want to stop. Meetings were rare Id dash to a conference, hed be on a work trip.
One day my lover suggested a perfect plan: meet in Israel, where both of us had relatives. Blythe was to cover the backstop. The plan was shaky from the start, but we took the risk. Blythe was enthusiastic, approving the lover with, Thats what you need, not the bloke you married! She even tried to slip into the house while I was away, only to be rebuked. She joined us for gallery openings and pricey restaurant nights (she chose the places, he paid).
Everything went smoothly until the lovers booked a threeday seaside escape to Eilat. Blythe started packing, expecting to be taken along, but the lover refused to foot her fare. Why do we need a blacksmith? he asked reasonably, and left Blythe in Jerusalem, inventing excuses for any calls from his wife.
Three days flew by. When the sunkissed lovers returned to Jerusalem, my lovers husband called my mate, Your husband called me last night. He caught me off guard, I was confused, tried to calm him all night, but he seemed to already know everything. He added, Better that way, otherwise youd never have decided.
The aftermath was a nightmare of marital negotiations, a fragile marriage stitched together for a few more years. And my mate what of her? She never admitted any fault, perhaps believing shed done me a favour. I never broached the subject again.
We still email now and then, but we no longer invite each other to remarriages or meet up. My phone pinged with a Google Photos notification: a fresh collage of pictures of Poppy and me over the years of trips and gatherings. Theyre reading our minds, I thought dryly, yet I lingered over the images, smiling at the memories.
In the end Im convinced genuine friendship does exist.
Lesson learned: True mates arent defined by constant proximity or flawless moments; theyre the ones who stand by you when lifes storm clouds gather, even if you later walk different paths.
