Short Sharp Friendship Exit by Nargis Lal, a Hanky Panky cocktail

Hayley’s a bit of a martyr. A people pleaser, to be polite. A self-centred bitch, to be honest, and isn’t that what most of us think of our friends? It depends, of course, what stage you’re at in the friendship. The bitch part comes when you’re bitter, usually at the very end. Jaya got the people pleasing part when Hayley welcomed her to Spanish class and leapt at the chance to own her. They struck up a classroom friendship and Hayley took to Jaya straightaway, sharing from the very start uncensored details of her life and why she lived alone. Her husband had taken his own life. He’d jumped in front of a train, on the track from Didcot to London. He’d been caught with a girl of fifteen and been suspended from teaching. He and Hayley had two grown-up sons.

 

    Hayley spoke openly and constantly about this, so much so that it seemed remarkably recent. It turned out to have happened in 2010 but talking to all and sundry was Hayley’s therapy. Her husband’s betrayal, his crimes and cunning, had crushed her. Jaya, naturally, was horrified and wished to help Hayley lance this wound. She listened to her for hours and checked in on her often. Jaya was empathetic and Hayley tunnelled into empaths’ brains, using passive aggressive techniques to demand time and attention.

Make sure that I’m not forgotten.

 

    Hayley had worked as an accountant and was skilled in maths and statistics. Like many woman of her age she’d never reached the heights she deserved. She was seventy-five, nearly two decades older than Jaya. Though she no longer worked she was much too bright to be retired. Her network of local friends and family was wide. She had never once lived outside Oxford. Compared to her Jaya was a newbie who’d amassed very few friends.

 

    Jaya and her husband Alex were not couply and their children had left home. Being married did not prevent Jaya from taking trips with friends and she invited Hayley to accompany her to Madrid. A short sojourn, sufficient for two local dinners and an art tour. Hayley left matters of choice to Jaya. I’m happy to go anywhere, see and eat whatever you want. Jaya chose the restaurants and at dinner Hayley complained that her family was not stepping up. That her sons neglected her for their wives. Though Jaya was ready to listen, and to sympathise, concrete examples of neglect were not proffered.

 

    The trip was a success and Jaya felt she finally had a new friend. Being in need of friends, as only children often are, she valued Hayley and hoped that this feeling was mutual. She got on with life in Oxford and her job in a science laboratory. But then she Subverted The Trend and left the Spanish class! With this one action Jaya fell from Hayley’s Roster of Active Acquaintances, the list that helped Hayley’s brain to rank and organise friends, and the rules of friendship changed. Jaya’s continued texts indicated that she did not get the updated rules. What should Hayley do now with Jaya, who no longer belonged? There was no file marked Random Friendships, or Floating Friends. Jaya had missed the script and wanted to remain on Hayley’s roster. She did strange, unexpected things. She sent texts to see how Hayley was and invited her for Christmas Day. And Hayley was in no doubt that this invitation was genuine.

 

    Hayley experienced mild panic. She’d complained for months that she feared being forgotten at Christmas but she was used to complaining. It was quite an imposition to be invited. Hayley lived in the past and Jaya was not even an old friend. Hayley opted not to reply; she must push Jaya out gradually. Jaya, for her part, hoped Hayley would respond. Her own South Asian family unit had vanished as people died. Friends had moved on, leaving her floundering. The rules of friendship, of interactions in general, seemed to have changed. It never used to be this hard. She feared appearing needy and did not press Hayley to RSVP, even as Christmas approached. She’s English, after all, and a little uncomfortable.

 

    It emerged later that there’d been a near-miss: Hayley had nearly spent Christmas on her own! She accepted a coffee from Jaya and recounted the supreme self-obsession of David, her locally-based son. He never even asked what I was going to do! Didn’t stop to wonder where I’d go for Christmas, or even to confirm his own plans. Well his wife had just proposed leaving the country to work on her own in Dubai. And I think they had a row and forgot about Christmas but I did think he could spare me a thought, you know. Hadn’t he even wondered what I’d do on the day? In the end I phoned my brother and he invited me to join his family, and oh goodness it was such a long drive to get there but they were so kind and next year I shall damn well make sure this never happens again and I shall book a trip away to avoid wanting my sons to take care of me because they obviously find it a terrible chore and how selfish of Mark to go with his wife and girls to Finland (where my daughter-in-law’s family lives) though actually they did originally invite me but somebody messed up on the Finland end and the property was too small for us all so I couldn’t go. By the way I do hope you’ll stay in touch now you’ve left the class. We must continue to meet up.

 

    Jaya and Alex invited Hayley to dinner at a local Thai restaurant. So glad you asked me. I never get invited out on a Saturday night! Alex spontaneously covered the entire bill and Hayley pretended to protest. I’ll buy you lunch in a few weeks, she offered. Weeks later (not wishing to seem pushy) Jaya texted to check that Hayley was alright. A jaunty reply zinged back. I’ve been thinking of you but I’m snowed under with David and Caroline’s new puppy. Love to see you (but I won’t do anything about it because honestly I’ve forgotten all about you and I know you like to have friends but you don’t come to Spanish anymore and I can’t think of anything to say when I see you and I’m not keen to plan lunch and think about where to go and in any case I’m so busy!)

 

    But do text. It’s so lonely when you don’t hear from people.

    No one ever seems to care. 

About the author

  

Nargis Lal is a new writer. Her achievements include: Short-listed for Cranked Anvil Flash Fiction Prize with ‘VIRGINITY’ Long-listed for Fiction Factory Short Story Competition with ‘MATRICIDE’ and ‘WALTHAMSTOW VILLAGE’ She is British Indian. Her stories deal with sex, race, politics, and relationships. 

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WALTHAMSTOW VILLAGE by Nargis Lal, Writer of vicious stories, bitter matcha latte.

2008

 

OCTOBER

 

Blood red lipstick on her sheets, and body fluid on his clothes. Limbs and silk and condoms: the sordid tussle of sex. Slowly she rises and rinses her soiled knickers. Prosecco, spilled on his shirt. Cursing, laughing, concealing. In two hours Paul will come home. In one hour she has to fetch Sam. She has to evict the builder right now. Lisette Sanders, born to be a princess, demands a life that only her husband Paul can give her. She pushes Georgios to the door, puckers her lips in farewell, and feeds the tropical fish. Routines must not be forgotten. Defrost the mince. Chop the onions. Bake cakes for Halloween. Tonight is Trick or Treat. Tomorrow coffee with Priya.

 

She’s gagging to dump this contact but Priya Russell won’t leave. They’ve been friends since baby clinic, have each had second babies, and Lisette wants Priya out of her hair. It was fine, even pleasant, until Georgios came on the scene. Lisette had needed a mum-friend, to swap notes on teething and potty training and all those insufferable things. But now Priya wants to talk politics, to express her beliefs. Lisette wants to sleep with her lover. She fits him into her day, between nursery and school and tedious baby group lunches. Obsesses over every text. Jumps when her phone pings. Tastes and craves her lover while Priya drones on about Obama.

 

You’re obsessed with bloody Obama. Don’t you want sex, and passion?

 

NOVEMBER

 

Priya has this thing for Paul, a dumb and pointless empathy.

‘His dad died last month. Give him a break.’

So preachy and oh so kind. Attuned to Paul and his moods, because she and Paul are part of the Dead Parents Band. Lisette’s parents are all too alive; she envies Paul and Priya’s freedoms. Paul has been bloody hard work since his father passed away. He hasn’t been there for Lisette, or for the children. Distant. Brooding. Self-indulgent. Along comes Georgios the builder, with zero parents and zero family obligations. Dangerous. Passionate. Liberating. So easy to have this affair. Such entertainment to confess! To see Priya’s face as she tries not to judge. As she tries to be a good friend. As she pushes thoughts of Selfish Lisette Bullying Wounded Paul from her kooky Obama-filled head.

 

Today has really been priceless. The headline is the Halloween disco - how freakishly funny it was. And of course the overblown election. Tomorrow, Lisette. Tomorrow! Lisette very nearly explodes. Stuff that sodding election. It’s Georgios she wants to be with. Georgios who lives inside her, while Paul and the children disappear.

 

 

 

2009

 

 

A pleasing and useful progression - Priya is packing up and moving away. Far away, to an Embassy in the Gulf. With her diplomat husband, and children who know the names of every American President and every British Prime Minister since Harold Macmillan. Who brush their teeth at the same time every night, and are denied sugar and burgers, and will go to university. The Russells, who run counter to everything in the Sanders-Bennett household. Perfect Parenting Prats – Lisette’s catty label for Priya and Rob. Lisette’s children run wild, and hothousing’s not her thing. They’ll eat and sleep when they want to and if they’re late who’s bothered? Right now she has other priorities: she and Paul can’t stop fighting.

 

Doors smash as Paul hears from neighbours of Lisette’s indiscretions. Leave me, he yells, let me move on with my life. They take separate bedrooms, at their lovingly refurbished house in Walthamstow Village, but Lisette won’t leave. Paul has invested his life and soul into their home. Stripped it bare and restored its Victorian core. He’s big into neighbourhood and she’s pissed on his doorstep. I’ll make you an offer, if you move away. He’ll be generous with maintenance and visitation but Lisette turns him down. He’s turned her dream home into a palace, her palace, and now he must allow her to roam.

 

Priya sends e-mails - mercifully not too often - and Lisette wonders why she needs her friends back home. Priya Russell’s new life is a dream, teaching English and swimming in sumptuous seas. Lisette could break it all off but it’s a hassle. Emotions could run high. And secrets might be spilled if Priya runs into Paul. Paul knows only a fraction of his wife’s carnal secrets. Priya knows all the past lovers: she soaked up their names like a sponge. An absorber of every detail, of the things Lisette could not hide. That she had to share and express. To make the torture real and validate her suffering. As the martyred and love-starved wife of a Bereaved and Self-Obsessed man.

 

 

2012

 

 

Obama’s second term and the Russells are back in town. To Lisette’s blessed relief they’ve sold their house and moved to a semi in Bedford, an improvement on their Blackhorse Road terrace. A burst of semi-ghosting and Priya will disappear. Her meet-up texts are a bore and Lisette is evasive. Texts back vague responses. Avoids invitations to gallery lunches in town and fails to ask the Russells to her home. The home in Walthamstow Village, where Sonali and Vik spent hours with Izzy and Sam in the days of fairy cakes and The Tweenies. Where Lisette bored the pants off Priya with her endless adulterous prattle. Her constant need for affairs. She has a horror, now, of Priya clinging on. Priya, the only child. Who has this toe-curling need for friends. Who pushes to meet, and get the kids together, when Izzy and Sam have long forgotten their childhood companions.

Didn’t you know it was just for those early years? Grow up, Priya, and find new friends.

 

The game plan is bound to work. Stop returning texts. Always say you’re busy, on whatever date she suggests, and bingo! Priya finally wakes up. She sends a final text, when the loss and betrayal sinks in.

‘I think I’ve just twigged that our friendship is over. I guess only you know why. I’ll miss seeing Sam and Izzy grow up, but I won’t miss your little confessions.’

 

Wow. She stung back! I almost admire the nerve. Just proves that this break makes sense. God knows when loud-mouthed Priya might lose control - and talk.

 

Priya will soon see the truth. Seek out different friends and see Lisette as a user. But in the early months of The Dumping, when pain is raw, there’s Danger. ‘The Descendants’ is on TV and it breaks her discretion. The Cheating, Errant Wife, and the Wounded Husband - George Clooney epitomises Paul! Paul, who loves his children. Who worked to pay for the mortgage while Lisette gave her body to others. A moment of pain and distraction, a little too much Prosecco, and Priya snaps. The memory of cuddles with Sam (where were you Lisette, when you used to leave him with me?), her honorary godson. The brutal loss of kinship, that Priya thought was for life.

‘Just like Lisette,’ she remarks, as credits roll. And Sonali and Vik, only vaguely aware of The Dumping, sit up to listen.

 

Intrigued, horrified, they extract all the gossip from her. They’d remembered the separate bedrooms on a summer visit to see Izzy and Sam. Wondered why the Sanders-Bennetts had disappeared from their lives. Vik boxes it, grabs his football, and runs outside. He always thought of them as family. Shitty of Lisette, but he barely thinks of Walthamstow now. Sonali, sharp and stunned, considers the subject all week. Perhaps, with a life overseas and so many new people to meet, she’d forgotten the London friendships. Failed to see the pain her mother felt at being dumped by this special friend. Who’d been at the earliest birthday parties, and known Sonali and her brother inside out. She listens now, mesmerised, and re-appraises Lisette. She watches Priya move on, in a new teaching post with a range of colleagues who flit in and out of her life. She takes her mother’s advice to have groups of friends. Don’t let people use you, and don’t give too much to one person.

 

 

 

2022

 

Obama is long in the past as Sonali looks for housing in London. Audacious, fearless Sonali, who didn’t go to university. Who found a job in music and started a zine. Eats burgers if she wants to, but ramen’s way better. She’s starting out in her life and is glad to live anywhere if the price and location is right. She really wants Hackney or Dalston but happenstance propels her to the London streets of her birth. This flat appears out of the blue, on her housemate Daniel’s screen, just yards from Walthamstow Village. She’s forgotten the house round the corner and the years flying on swings all over that garden. Dressing Polly Pockets. Waiting for a new baby sibling. She was there, in that house, when Dad came to fetch her to tell her that Vik had been born. At the back of her mind is a name, from all those years back, but won’t Izzy Bennett have moved on? People in London revolve. Fly from the nest to spread wings. Sonali has no idea how the people in this tight network live. No clue that swathes of silver-spooned Village offspring remain, in rent-free and spacious homes. She’s mostly in Brick Lane, not far from her workspace, but tonight she’s at a local. A bit provincial, she thinks, but Daniel wanted to try it.

 

Swapping Walthamstow tales at a pub near the Village and stumbling on a guy her age. Discovering they’d known one another, in the days of playgroups and parties.

‘Didn’t you know Izzy Bennett?’ Ugo asks. ‘You and I were always at Lisette and Paul’s house.’

‘Yeah, years back,’ Sonali slurs.

‘Come and say hi. She’s over there.’

Sonali shrugs and follows this barely familiar figure. A little spaced out as Izzy Bennett acknowledges her.

‘Sonali – yeah! I remember. You were always round at our house.’

 

Three childhood playmates, and 2-for-1 cocktail deals. The music is good and they chill, laughing at times that they only vaguely recall. Things swim in Sonali’s head and she’s not quite sure if they’re real. She gazes at golden-haired Izzy. Thinks of trips to farms and swimming pool cafes.

‘Your mum and dad split up right? Over some builder.’

‘Oh God, no,’ Izzy laughs. ‘They’re at home together. You’re thinking of someone else.’

Sonali frowns. She’s had a feeling, in some unconscious part of her mind, that Izzy’s parents are divorced.

She could just let it go but Sonali, when she’s drinking, is a mamba.

‘Izzy’s mum and dad are solid,’ Ugo grins, and the poison stirs.

‘His name was Georgios – like George. We said it was ironic.’
‘Why?’ Izzy bristles.

‘Because of George Clooney being in that film. And your mum being exactly like his wife.’

‘What the fuck-’

‘ ‘The Descendants’ – that’s the one,’ Sonali remembers. ‘Not sure the wife dumped her friend, but the rest of it’s true.’

About the author

Nargis Lal is a new writer. Her achievements include: Short-listed for Cranked Anvil Flash Fiction Prize with ‘VIRGINITY’ Long-listed for Fiction Factory Short Story Competition with ‘MATRICIDE’ and ‘WALTHAMSTOW VILLAGE’ She is British Indian. Her stories deal with sex, race, politics, and relationships. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)