Clara staggered into Bridget’s garden, the floral dress she’d worn for this reunion clinging to her with the heaviness of regret.
“Bek!” Bridget nearly tripped over the garden hose in her attempt to tackle Clara, her arms wide in a bear hug that knocked the breath from Clara’s lungs. “Darling! You’ve barely changed a bit! I half expected you to vanish into the ether with your poetry books and never grace us with your presence!”
“Here I am,” Clara muttered, patting Bridget’s back as though the reunion were a business transaction. “Happy 50th, Beck.”
“Honestly, you need a stiff drink after that priceless face you pulled just now.” Bridget grabbed Clara’s hand, her manicured nails gleaming like the posh garden center where she claimed to have bought the geraniums blooming wildly in the border. “Come on, the old gang’s all here! You remember Victor? And Jane from Manchester? We’ve all tumbled into our facelift years, but look—!” She gestured at a group sprawled on wicker garden chairs, teacups in hand. “Still here, at least.”
Clara’s eyes swept the crowd. Victor had transformed from the boy who’d once read dog-eared Dostoevsky under his bed to a man with a waistline that rivaled the waistline of the garden swing. Jane wore a cashmere shawl and a perfume so expensive it probably had its own pin code. Clara tugged at the hem of her borrowed-from-Aunt-Dorothy frock and sat on the edge of the nearest bench.
“Clara!” Victor bellowed, sloshing rosé from his goblet. “Bloody hell, lass! You’ve aged like a vintage sherry!”
“Still drinking?” Clara deadpanned.
“Still stingy with praise!” Victor slung an arm around her. “Now, spill—why the manuscript of your life is still unwritten, eh? Ever pop the question, or did you write your fiancé out of the plotline?”
“Boring answer: working in a library, single.”
“Boring? You were the poet! The one who made the sixth-form poetry slam about *metaphors*!” Jane chimed in, her voice all silk and treacle tea. “You could’ve swept someone off their feet with a haiku!”
Clara stared at the Ladybird larvae crawling up a hydrangea. “A talent that outgrew the universe, I suppose.”
“What about Christopher?” Jane leaned forward, the glint in her eye focused. “Blind date, 1997. Remember how you said his tie was too loud for your gaze?”
“Ah. The tie incident. It was loud.”
“Brilliant man, Christopher! Owns half of London now. Wife in a Jane Austen gown, two kids at Eton. You’re missing out, Bek’s old anvil.”
“Speak of the devil,” Victor said, pointing at the path as a man in a woolen scarf trudged past the garden. “There’s Matthew. Dropped out of the postal system years ago. Lives in a van, now. Says it’s ‘creative solitude.'”
“Creative?” Clara raised an eyebrow. “Or just creatively avoiding responsibilities?”
“Both, probably.” Victor sipped his drink. “Still, you’ve got to hand it to him. At least he’s not in the garden club with me and bromeliads.”
Clara frowned. Matthew. She’d rejected him, too, for being too quiet, too unsure. Now she pressed a hand to her chest, the pressure there more weighty than the teacup she’d polished off ten minutes ago.
“And Mary?” she asked, steering the conversation away from her bruises.
“Dead. Ten years. Cancer.” Jane’s voice softened. “Wished we’d called her back for that last tea.”
A hush fell, broken by Bridget’s sudden bark of laughter. “Right, lads! Enough doom. Rose, could you bring the birthday cake? Clara, do you want a second life for the anti-anti-social section?”
The group clapped as a five-layer sponge, dripping with jam and fresh berries, appeared like a unicorn on a cake plate. Bridget made Clara blow out the candles, her wish for “a blazing plot twist into someone else’s happy story” swallowed by the racket of focused breathing and a very enthusiastic, off-key chorus of *Happy Birthday*.
Later, under the stars, Bridget cornered her. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice thick with wine and worry.
“Loneliness isn’t a label I stick on.” Clara squinted. “It’s a habit.”
“Yes, and you’ve perfected it. But Christopher? He’s an oat-milk latte compared to your iced black. Matthew? He’s a misfiring Roman candle. But look at me! I’m in a *quiche lifestyle*! Second marriage, a son who’s studying the stock market, and a Pimms cooler I keep near the patio. You could do better than that library!”
“You sound like a hit song.”
“Truth is catchy. Remember Victor’s poetry?” Bridget gestured to the garden. “He seduced me with a sonnet about my hair. Now I’m in charge of the gazebos and forget how to knit.”
Clara walked home in the early morning, the edges of her dress bruised by dew. In her modest flat, she flopped onto the chaise lounge and opened an Agatha Christie. The words blurred as she stared at the empty bookshelf next to the cat tree—her cat, Elbow, had redecorated it into a claw sculpture.
“You’re blooming lonely,” she told the fishbowl glowing in the kitchen. The goldfish swirled, indifferent.
The next morning, Bridget texted: *You’re in the photo album. Look at how the years have made you all into a comedy sketch. We’ll meet again. And next time, bring the wine.*