‘Oh, just a girl who I lost touch with years ago. She contacted me on Facebook, thought it would be nice to meet for a catch-up,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. Tonight’s not the time to go into it; if I start explaining what happened to Maria, even the heavily edited version that I would have to tell Polly, we’ll be here all night, and I haven’t even figured out what I’m going to wear yet. I can’t ask Polly for help with that, much as I’d like to, because then I’d have to explain why it matters so much to me to look good tonight.
‘That’s great,’ says Polly. She’s always on at me to go out more, see my other friends. She thinks, and she’s probably right, that I’ve neglected them in my eagerness to focus on Henry in the wake of the split from Sam. The only one who hasn’t dropped away is her, because she refuses to.
‘So she would have known Sam too, this girl you’re going to see?’ Polly goes on, frowning.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Does she know that he’s left you for that… that… floozy?’ Polly’s fury at Sam’s treatment of me, and her contempt for Catherine, his new, younger wife, knows no bounds.
I feel a fierce pang of love for her. She and Aaron and Sam and I never really progressed as a foursome, beyond the occasional dinner together. I used to wish that we were more of a gang, like some of the other couples that I knew who holidayed together, but I’m glad now that Polly stayed so very much mine, and that Aaron and Sam never gelled.
‘I don’t even know if she knows that Sam and I were married,’ I say. ‘Although I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows the whole story; she always knew all the gossip at school.’ Well, not the whole story. No one knows that. Not even Polly.
‘Hmm, OK. Now,’ Polly says, and I can tell that whatever’s coming next, it’s something she’s planned to say to me before she arrived, ‘have you thought any more about what I said? About internet dating?’
‘I don’t know, Polly. I’m not sure I’m ready to meet anyone.’ I spend longer than necessary looking for teabags in the cupboard. ‘You know I need to concentrate on Henry, and work. I don’t have a lot of time for anything else.’ It’s not time that’s the problem. It’s me. I think I might be broken. After all those years with Sam, I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about conducting a new relationship.
‘That’s exactly why you should do it! You need something else, something that’s just for you. I totally understand why you’ve had to devote all your energy to Henry, especially with him starting school this year, but it’s been two years since Sam left. That’s a long time, Lou.’
It feels like yesterday. The pain has dulled a little, but it’s still there, like a gap where a tooth has been extracted. Some days I can leave it alone, but others I can’t help probing it with my tongue to see how much it still hurts. No matter how things were at the end, I can’t forget how we felt like one person rather than two separate beings, how we were swallowed up into each other, the times I saw myself reflected in his eyes looking better than I had ever looked. How we used to be everything to each other, not needing anyone else. I drag my thoughts away from him, back to Polly.
‘I know,’ I say reluctantly. ‘You’re probably right. I’m OK on my own though. Better, even.’
‘Well you’re certainly better off on your own than being with him. But you could be more than OK, you could be happy. You deserve some fun, and to be with someone who will treat you well, put you first. Look after you.’
‘Sam did all that,’ I say defensively. Sometimes I think Polly forgets how happy Sam and I were until a few years ago when things started to go wrong. How much he loved me, needed me even. At sixteen he hadn’t seemed to need anybody. He was so sure of himself, verging on arrogant, although I never would have said so at the time. I kept my devotion to him a secret back then because I feared he would scorn such puppyish emotion. But when we met again ten years later, he was different: a little softer, a little more vulnerable. Something in him responded to and was grateful for the uncritical, teenage adoration I still felt for him.
‘Oh my God!’ says Polly. ‘Why are you still defending him? What he did to you was so wrong.’
‘Yes, I know. But it wasn’t all his fault.’
‘Yes it was! It was totally all his fault!’ Polly pulls her unruly hair into a ponytail and twists it around in frustration. This is a conversation we’ve had many times before and both of us know it’s never going to end in agreement, so I pull her back.
‘So… this online dating thing, what would I even say about myself?’
‘Aha! That’s where you don’t need to worry.’ Polly smiles with the air of a poker player pulling out a trump card. One of the many things I love about her is her inability to hold a grudge. She can be really cross with you about something one minute, but make her laugh and it’s all forgotten. ‘There’s this site where your friend puts up your profile – they write it, say what kind of man you’re looking for, everything. You just sit back and wait for the offers to come rolling in.’
‘And this friend would be…?’ I smile, squishing the teabags against the inside of the mugs and adding milk.
‘Ta-dah!’ Polly does jazz hands around her face. ‘Seriously though, what have you got to lose?’
It’s not so much what I’ve got to lose as what I could potentially gain. Do I really want to open myself up to the possibility of hurt again? I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am today – independent, self-sufficient, just me and Henry, happy in our little bubble. Making sure that Henry is OK has been my only concern apart from my work, and although there are days when I wish I could turn the clock back, actually I’m OK: healthier, happier. In fact I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else. I’m scared that I’m spoiled. A phrase I heard my mother use when I was a child echoes in my head: damaged goods.
‘OK, don’t be cross,’ Polly goes on, ‘but I’ve set you up a profile on the site. Why don’t you have a look and see what you think?’ She pulls my laptop towards her from the other side of the table.
‘Wait!’ I jump forward and snatch it from her. Maria’s Facebook page is open on there.
Polly draws her hand back in confusion. ‘The profile’s not live yet, I set it up so you can check it before I upload it.’
‘Oh, no, sorry, it’s not that,’ I say, opening up the lid, hoping she doesn’t notice the barely perceptible tremor in my hands. ‘It’s just that my laptop’s password protected. I’ll do it.’
I hit a few random keys as if typing in a password, then close down Facebook and hand the laptop over to Polly. She opens a new window and taps away for a few seconds.
‘OK, here you are: Independent, funny female seeks similar male, 35–50, for country walks, delicious food, and nights in and out.’
‘I hate country walks.’
‘I know, but they all seem to love them so I thought you might give yourself more of a chance if you said you did.’
‘Right, OK… and delicious food? Won’t they think that’s a way of warning them that I’m really fat?’
‘They’ll be able to see your photo, so they’ll know you’re not. Look.’ She clicks on the photo. She’s used one I’ve never seen before, taken at a barbecue at her and Aaron’s last summer. I’m wearing a bright print cotton dress and sunglasses, holding a glass of wine and laughing. I look happy and carefree. I don’t look like me.