I was sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle hissing, and my mind drifted back to the way friendships are measured. Some are just for a cup of tea; some last a lifetime. My own story belongs to the latter.
Alright, thats it for today, I said into the phone, smiling despite the rush. Hell be home from work soon, and I havent even started dinner. Give your husband a kiss and ring us as soon as you pin down your travel dates! My friends husband was planning a trip to see their daughter in Berlin, so a real chance to meet up was on the horizon.
Its a shame how far Emily lives now and how expensive everything has become, my mate lamented again. At least we can chat endlessly on the phone. Even with our rare facetoface meetings and wildly different lifestyles, our conversations pick up as if no time has passed. Most of the women Ive met later in life, after moving abroad, never managed that. Its not that we go to the same events or holiday to the same placesone would think wed have endless things to talk about. Yet too often we had to force a topic, and I never tolerated empty chatter.
Emily and I have known each other since the first year of school, but our true bond only blossomed after I left England for the States. Back then we each floated in our own little worlds, barely intersecting, while I always dreamed of a real friendthe kind you read about in novels.
Writers arent lying when they say they draw from life, unless theyre penning fantasy. Theres a popular belief, bolstered by countless jokes, that women dont have friendships, only men do. But what does a male friendship look like? A football match, moving heavy furniture, a political debate, maybe borrowing some cashnever the deep soulpouring, the venting about a spouse or boss.
I used to split friendships into two categories: acquaintances and true friends. Acquaintances were plentiful; we could chat about fashion, health, books, movies, travel, home life, children, or ageing parentsalways on the surface. A true friend, on the other hand, is someone you can be utterly yourself with, who will listen to your most secret thoughts without a hint of mockery, who will dash to your door rain or shine, bottle in hand or not, and spend hours hearing the same story told in a hundred variations, wiping away your tears and sniffles.
I knew such a friend existed because, deep down, I would act exactly that way. My husband and my parents sometimes blocked my latenight dash to a friends flat, but otherwise I was always ready to lend a hand.
The path to finding that kind of friendship was long and thorny. I stumbled over neighbours Id known since childhood, argued over a broken walking doll gifted by her parents on her birthday, watched a cousin ruin it by soaking it with water during a game of house, and was blamed for the mischief. My friend didnt stand up for me, and that chapter closed. Later, a friend in New York cut off communication over a trivial spat, despite years of immigration hardships and sincere apologies. The star of my falsefriend list, though, was Lucy.
Lucy entered our lives in second grade, slipping into the class like she owned it. She was petite, with tightly coiled hair pulled into a thick braid. Where beauty fell short, she compensated with boundless energy, selfconfidence, and a laugh that some called infectious, others described as a hearty snort. Because we lived on the same block and rode the same tube home, we quickly formed a habit: each day on the way to the station wed stop at a market stall and buy a wafflecone icecream with a pink swirl. I usually footed the bill, as Lucys mother gave her just a pound a week for all expenses, saying, Heres your allowancedont deny yourself anything. I believed that true friends shouldnt keep petty accounts.
That daily treat seemed to toughen us up; colds stayed away, and our parents enrolled us in a swimming club we attended together after lessons. We went to the cinema, theatre, and exhibitions (if I disliked a painting, Lucy would declare, You just arent ready for it yet). We spent holidays at youth camps, joined dance and art classes. I loved drawing, but dropped the course after Lucy harshly critiqued a quail Id paintedher version looked more like a cow, but she insisted oil on canvas made it superior.
We even fell for the same boy in primary school, each breaking our hearts simultaneouslywell, thats what I thought until I discovered Lucy still harboured feelings for him. My grandmother would shake her head and warn, Stay away from that Lucy, shes envious. Id retort, Grandma, you dont understand; were genuine friends! I was ready to cede leadership, accept her verdicts, tolerate her perpetual tardinessall trivial compared with the certainty that shed be a rock for me.
Lucy, ever the protector, once told a classmate who was courting me that he wasnt right for me and should back off. I brushed it off as overprotectiveness. Yet when my mother, a psychologist, harshly criticised my closeness with a fellow student, Lucy soothed my tears and fiercely defended me.
Our friendship survived university choices, temptations of different circles, weddings where we were each others maid of honour, and the birth of our first children. Then life scattered us: I moved to Boston, Lucy headed to Tel Aviv, and contact dwindled to a few sporadic emails.
We unexpectedly reunited in Amsterdam. The initial thrill soon gave way to puzzlement when I learned Lucy had visited the States many times since I left, yet never thought to let me know. She bragged about a fling with my most ardent admirer, attempting to spill intimate details I never wanted to hear. The sting was sharp, but the reunion was also sweet: Emily, now back from Moscow, joined us, and old grievances were tucked away, if not entirely forgotten.
A few more years passed with lazy correspondence and occasional meetups. Lucy divorced and kept searching for a new partner; my own marriage was floundering, though our children grew. Eventually it became unbearable.
An old acquaintance resurfaced, leading to an email chain, a meeting at his town during a medical conference, reminiscing, and, predictably, a night together. A fling began. I felt ashamed but also alive, unable and unwilling to halt it. Our meetings were raresometimes I escaped to a conference, other times he was on a business trip. One day he suggested a daring plan: meet in Israel, where both our families lived, and have Lucy cover the rear. The scheme was shaky from the start, but we took the risk.
Lucy threw herself into the idea, approving the lover with the gusto of Thats what you need, not the bloke you married! She even tried to slip into his house while I was out, only to be rebuffed. She accompanied us to posh galleries, pricey restaurantsshe chose the venues, he paid the bills. Everything went so well that the two lovers booked a threeday getaway to Eilat. Lucy packed a suitcase, hoping to be invited, but the lover refused to foot her fare.
Why do we need a blacksmith? he asked reasonably, and left Lucy in Jerusalem, scrambling for excuses when his wife called. The three days flew by, and when the sunkissed lovers returned, Lucys phone rang.
Your husband called me last night, she blurted. He caught me off guard, I tried to calm him down, but he seemed to know everything already. Maybe its for the best; you never wouldve decided otherwise.
What followed was a marathon of arguments with my husband, a fragile marriage patched together for a few more years, and a friendship that felt more like an obligation than a bond. Lucy never admitted any guilt, perhaps believing shed done me a favour. I stopped bringing up the painful episode.
We still exchange occasional messages, yet never invited each other to our subsequent weddings, and we havent seen each other in person since. My phone buzzed with a Google Photos alert: a new collage of pictures of Emily and me from years of trips and gettogethers.
Theyre reading our thoughts now, I muttered, halfamused, halfbitter, then let myself linger over the images, recalling the journeys. A small smile crept onto my face as I thought, Maybe true friendship does exist after all.
