Dear Diary,
There are acquaintances you meet over a latte, and then there are true companions who stand by you for a lifetime. My own story belongs to the latter.
Alright, thats enough for today, I said to my friend Violet, smiling despite the rush of thoughts. My husband will be home from work any minute, and I havent even started dinner yet. Give my love a kiss and ring us as soon as you know your travel dates! The conversation ended on a bright note; Violet and her husband were planning a visit to their daughter in France, which meant we would finally see each other again soon.
How sad it is that you live so far away now, and meeting has become so costly and difficult, Violet lamented once more. At least we can chat endlessly on the phone. Even with our infrequent meetups and wildly different lives, we always slipped back into conversation as if we had never paused. Most of my other friendships, forged later in life after I moved abroad, never felt that seamless. Its funnyour circles overlap, we attend the same festivals, travel to the same places, yet we still find ourselves squeezing out something genuine while the rest feels shallow. I have never tolerated empty chatter.
Violet and I first met in first grade, but the real bond blossomed after I left Russia. Back then we each kept to our own little worlds, only brushing past each other in the hallways, while I dreamed of a true confidanteone straight out of a novel, someone who would accept me as I am.
Writers claim they merely write what they know, unless theyre dealing with fantasy. Theres a popular belief, bolstered by endless jokes, that women dont have lasting friendshipsonly men do. But what does a male friendship look like? Going to the football match together, helping each other move heavy boxes, swapping opinions about politics, maybe lending a few quid They never pour their souls out to one another; at best they gripe about their spouses or bosses.
I used to split female friendships into two categories: mates and true friends. Mates are plentiful; you can chat about fashion, health, books, movies, travel, home life, parenting, caring for ageing parentsalways on the surface. A true friend, however, is someone you can lay your heart bare to without fearing ridicule or judgment. Its the person who will show up at a moments notice, rain or shine, with or without a bottle of wine, and sit with you for hours, listening to the same story in countless variations, wiping away your tears and sniffling.
I knew such a friend existed because I would have acted the same way myself. Of course, a midnight call wasnt always possiblefirst my parents, then my husband would stop mebut otherwise I was ready to lend a hand.
After a long, winding road, I finally found that steadfast companion in Violet. Our path wasnt smooth. I fell out with a neighbour Id known since childhood over a broken walking doll, a birthday gift that a visiting cousin had ruined by soaking it with water. The blame fell on me, and Violet didnt defend me, so that friendship ended.
Later, another disappointment came from a friend in America who, over some petty grievance, cut off all contact despite years of shared hardship in exile and my sincere apologies. Yet the brightest star among my socalled fairweather friends was Beatrice.
Beatrice entered our lives in the second year of primary school and instantly blended into the group. She was short and plump, with a mass of tightly coiled hair tied into a thick braid. Where her looks fell short, her energy, confidence, and a laugh that some called contagious and others likened to a snort more than a giggle more than made up for it.
We all lived near each other and walked home from the tube together, forming a little ritual: each day on the way to the station wed stop at a stall and buy a wafflecone ice cream topped with a tiny pink swirl. I usually paid, as Beatrices mother only gave her a pound a week for all expenses, saying, Heres your moneydont deprive yourself. I believed that between friends there shouldnt be petty accounting.
Our daily icecream habit seemed to toughen us; colds rarely bothered us, and our parents even enrolled us in a swimming club, which we attended together after school. We did everything side by side: cinema trips, theatre outings, gallery visits (if I disliked an artist, Beatrice would assert, You just havent grown into it yet), pioneer camps, dance and art classes. I loved drawing, but I quit after Beatrice critiqued a quail Id painted, calling it more of a cow. She insisted that because it was oilpainted, it was better.
We both fell for the same boy in primary school and broke off at the same time. I thought we were equally heartbroken, but later realised Beatrice still harboured feelings for him, hoping for a mutual response. My grandmother would shake her head and warn, Stay away from that Beatrice, shes jealous. I would retort, You dont understand, Grandmawere real friends!
I was always ready to let Beatrice take the lead, accept her firm judgments, tolerate her chronic tardiness. To me, those were trivial compared to the certainty that she would be my rock. Still, Beatrice once decided, without consulting me, to tell a classmate who was courting me that I wasnt interested and should leave me alone. I chalked it up to her overprotectiveness and determination.
When my mother, a psychologist, once launched a stern lecture about my close bond with a fellow student, Beatrice soothed my tears and defended me boldly. Our friendship survived university choices, temptations, weddings where each of us stood as the others maid of honour, and the birth of our first children.
Eventually, we drifted to opposite corners of the worldme to the United States, Beatrice to Israel. Contact dwindled to occasional messages. Then, unexpectedly, we met again in Amsterdam. The initial thrill quickly turned to puzzlement when I learned she had been to America several times over the years but never let me know. She bragged about having started a romance with my most ardent admirer after I left, even hinting at intimate details I never wished to hear. It stung, but the reunion also brought Violet from Moscow into the mix, and soon all old grievances were either forgotten or deeply buried.
A few more years passed with lazy correspondence and the occasional meetup. Beatrice went through a divorce and kept searching for a new partner; my own marriage faltered, though our children grew, and we tried to endure. Eventually, the strain became unbearable.
Then an old acquaintance resurfaced. We started emailing, met when I flew to his city for a medical conference, reminisced, and, as often happens, it ended in bed. A brief affair sparked. I wasnt proud, but life suddenly felt vivid again, and I couldntor didnt wantto stop it.
Our meetings were rare: sometimes I snuck away for a conference, sometimes he was on a work trip. One day he suggested a perfect planto meet in Israel, where both our families lived, with Beatrice covering the backup. The scheme was shaky from the start, but we took the risk. Beatrice threw herself into it, cheering, Thats the kind of man you need, not the bloke you married! She even tried to flirt with him while I was away, but was rebuked.
We dined in upscale restaurants (she chose the places, he paid), roamed galleries, and eventually decided to spend three days on the Red Sea at Eilat. Beatrice packed a suitcase, hoping to be invited, but the man refused to cover her travel costs. Why do we need a blacksmith? he joked, leaving Beatrice behind in Jerusalem to concoct excuses for his wife should she call.
Those three days flew by. When the lovers returned to Jerusalem, Beatrice called, breathless: Your husband called me last night. He caught me off guard, I was flustered, tried to calm him all evening, but he seemed to know everything already. Its probably for the bestyou never really decided. The call marked the beginning of a long, painful reconciliation with my husband, a marriage patched together for a few more years.
And Beatrice? She never admitted any guilt, perhaps believing shed done me a favour. I stopped bringing up the episode. We still exchange occasional messages, but we never invited each other to our subsequent weddings, and we no longer see each other.
Just now my phone pinged: Google Photos had assembled a new montage of pictures of Violet and me from all our trips over the years. Theyre reading our minds, I muttered with a sigh, then lingered over the images, letting the memories wash over me. A small comfort rose within: perhaps true friendship does exist after all.
