‘I don’t believe that,’ I say, although it lacks conviction.
‘It’s true,’ she says earnestly. ‘And afterwards we had that lecture, remember? A nun came to the school and gave a talk, warning girls about having “special friends”。’ Sara creates quotation marks with her fingers.
The memory does resurface, but straight away gets lost in a flurry of other rumours that used to swirl around St Ursula’s like scraps of paper on a gusty day. Girls who fell pregnant or had abortions, or swallowed pills and had their stomachs pumped; or the senior who reportedly slept with Mr Piccolo, our married science teacher.
I can see Sara loitering around Tempe, desperate to ask her about Caitlin Penney, but I’ve made her promise to stay away from the subject and give her a chance to make new friends.
We’re using the blender to mix fruit daiquiris, mango or strawberry, which are dangerously alcoholic and addictive. I try not to drink too much and to make sure everybody is having a nice time.
The pizzas arrive. Carmen and Tempe are in the kitchen cutting fruit for another batch of cocktails when I overhear them talking. Margot asks her how the two of us met and Tempe doesn’t mention our time at school; or that I rescued her from Darren Goodall. I can understand why she wants to keep certain things secret, particularly being the mistress of a married man.
Instead, she recounts a story of how her bag was snatched by a guy on a scooter; and how she was dragged along the road, grazing her face. I was the first police officer who arrived at the scene and I drove her to the hospital. It’s a version of the story that Tempe told me about meeting Darren Goodall but with a different victim and outcome. It sounds plausible and Carmen makes all the right noises, expressing shock and sympathy.
Later, Tempe tells Georgia that she’s Henry’s second cousin on his mother’s side and that she and Henry knew each other as kids and used to share baths together. It’s another good story, which gets a laugh, but I can’t understand why she has to lie to people. It’s like a game.
Alone with Tempe in the kitchen, I finally get a chance to ask her, but she laughs it off, saying it makes life more interesting.
‘Haven’t you ever wanted to pretend? I used to do it all the time in Belfast. I’d go out with friends and we’d invent cover stories. We’d be flight attendants, or professional mud-wrestlers, or hand models.’
‘But these are my friends.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll stop.’
For the rest of the evening, I watch her closely, and notice how she manages to look like she’s drinking and getting tipsy like everybody else, but she hardly sips a cocktail. She listens and nods, soaking up information without offering an opinion.
We’re outside in the garden, talking about wedding dresses and what my bridesmaids will wear. Sara, Brianna and Phoebe are going to be my bridesmaids. Carmen will be too pregnant by then and Georgia thinks marriage is a ‘social and legal construct that devalues women and makes them property and objects’。 She still expects an invitation, of course.
‘You promised not to dress me in taffeta,’ says Sara. ‘Or in orange, or yellow.’
‘If I look like a meringue, I’ll never speak to you again,’ echoes Brianna.
They grow louder and cruder. The night wears on. Moths begin fluttering around the garden lights. At ten o’clock, I shepherd them inside, worried about complaints from the neighbours. Georgia begins rolling a joint, which I choose to ignore.
I can hear Sara talking about her trip to Paris over Easter.
‘I can see you nodding,’ says Georgia. ‘Do you like Paris?’
‘Very much so,’ answers Tempe. ‘I lived there for two years.’
‘Where?’
‘On the West Bank.’
‘You mean the Left Bank?’ says Sara.
‘Or maybe the right bank,’ giggles Brianna.
They are making fun of her.
‘You must speak French,’ says Georgia.
‘Only a little.’
‘Je ne pense pas que tu parles fran?ais du tout.’
Tempe mumbles, ‘Not that much.’
There is more laughter. Tempe understands why and goes quiet. Sara can spot a weakness.
‘Hey, Tempe, you lived in Northern Ireland. Have you heard the Irish knock-knock joke?’
‘No.’
‘It’s great, you start.’
‘Knock, knock,’ says Tempe.
Silence. Tempe’s eager face slowly changes as the realisation dawns on her that she is the Irish joke. The others burst out laughing. I want to defend her, but say nothing, which makes me feel worse. I wish they’d all go home now. I’m tired and they’ve become drunk and annoying. Tempe isn’t blameless. She’s been trying too hard to be liked, instead of being herself.
They leave at midnight, all except for Georgia, who is crashing in our spare room. She fills a jug with water, spilling some on the countertop. I wipe it down.
I’m hand-washing the glasses and rinsing them in cold water.
‘Why don’t you use the dishwasher?’ she asks, elongating the sound dishhhh.
‘It’s broken.’
She perches on a stool, almost sliding off.
‘Why were you so mean to Tempe?’ I ask.
‘Sara started it.’
‘That’s no excuse.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I fell for that knock-knock joke. Somebody always does.’ Georgia takes a sip of water. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Is Tempe gay?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The way she looks at you. Phoebe thought you two might be, you know …’
‘You can’t be serious!’
She holds up her hands. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You went to an all-girls school. That sort of stuff goes on in the dormitories, late at night, when the lights are off.’
‘I wasn’t a boarder, and that sounds like something Henry would say. Tempe is not gay.’
‘If you say so,’ says Georgia, giggling.
‘I’m going to bed.’
‘What time it is?’
‘Two in the morning.’
‘Oh, God. I’ll feel like shit tomorrow.’
‘You mean today. I’ve put some paracetamol beside your bed.’
She gives me a hug, slurring, ‘You are going to make someone a wonderful wife one day.’
‘Yes, and I know exactly the man.’
22
Tempe and I are shopping in the West End. I normally avoid this sort of thing, but buying clothes is a different experience with Tempe, who is like a personal stylist and a life coach rolled into one, encouraging me to try on outfits and mix colours that I wouldn’t normally consider. Today we’ve bought cashmere sweaters at Uniqlo and matching white trainers at the ASICS store.
When we walk along the street, she sometimes puts her arm through mine and we stay in step like we’re in a Hollywood musical and about to burst into song.
My mother once told me that we make very few new friends once we reach a certain age. I don’t know why that is. Perhaps we become too set in our ways and want to surround ourselves with people who share a common history. I have old friends who I disagreed with over Brexit and voting for Boris and the Scottish independence referendum, but I’m less likely to make the same allowances for someone new. They have to earn a place in my heart.