The Announcement
Anya, arriving in London after being out of the country for nearly eight months, only coming back for short visits in between, was well and truly back for the foreseeable. Apart from an interview and shoot for the autumn issue of Elle magazine, Anya was at home and de-stressing in time for my parents’ wedding.
I, on the other hand, was on high stress, despite how wonderfully good life appeared to be. Anthony, in the meantime, was enjoying his exhibition being taken to a gallery in Manchester and then on to an art academy in Brussels. He’d be completely free for the wedding but it was essential that he be available for a few talks and newspaper interviews both for the Manchester and Belgian reporters to coincide with the shows. Other than that he was back in his studio experimenting with watercolours and contemplating a trip to Italy to start a series of landscape and seascape paintings.
Anthony was out with an arty friend for the evening on the day Anya called and said she was coming over.
I was ecstatic because I’d have my best friend around for the next few months. It felt as if I hadn’t seen her in years. I’d have someone to tell all my woes to, have a good laugh with, and to share the bottle of Macallan whisky Father had bought me for Christmas. Mother had been appalled that he should buy his daughter booze as a present but it was a very good year for the Macallan and it was probably the most expensive present he’d bought for anyone else, including Mother.
There was only one person to share the Macallan whisky experience with and that was Anya. I couldn’t remember when we last spent an evening in on one of our whisky binges.
‘You look absolutely amazing,’ I said to Anya when she arrived at my door in an ivory-coloured jacket by Armani. But then I’d never known my supermodel friend to look anything but amazing. Her skin was glowing after having spent the last few months on fashion shoots in Rio de Janeiro followed by another break with her boyfriend, Henry, in Aruba.
Anya kissed my cheeks, barely touching the surface of my skin with her actual mouth. I grabbed her as she stepped into the hallway and hugged her. There had been too many miles between us for too long for her to get away with one of her icy welcomes. The ivory jacket, with the collar turned up so that it touched her chin, was making her look like the ice queen in a children’s fantasy film. Her hair slicked up into a tight topknot added to the effect. I had become adept at ignoring her standoffish behaviour even if others hadn’t. Only those who knew her really well, knew there was a softer side to Anya.
I took off Anya’s summer jacket and hung it on one of the hooks in the tiny entrance hall.
‘Come in, come in,’ I said taking her slender hand and pulling her into the living room. I’d already opened the fancy whisky and set out a couple of crystal tumblers. I’d made a few plates of finger foods (I’d most likely be the only one eating as I wasn’t sure if it was a food day for Anya; I’d lost track). I’d set all the food and drink on the coffee table and we sat on the sofa together. Getting my priorities right, I began to pour, half filling the crystal glasses with golden liquid. We ceremoniously clinked glasses and took the first sips, eyes closed, and allowing the whisky to ease gently down our throats. It was our thing: drink the first mouthful before the talking began. We had to show good whisky that kind of respect.
Ritual over, Anya and I could finally get down to the latest news. For one thing, she was completely unaware I’d had a miscarriage. Although I’d vowed not to tell anyone I secretly felt it might do me more good to speak to someone about it and that someone was always going to be Anya.
On New Year’s Eve I’d come close to telling her but only because she’d guessed something was wrong between me and Anthony. I supposed that telling her months later meant that I could round the story off by saying that Anthony and I were well and truly in love and not bitter with each other any more.
I’d put the miscarriage to the back of my mind for months, concentrating on the business and, of course, the wedding. I’d suppress any urges to become upset, regretful, or any of the million and one awful ways I’d felt about it but, face to face with Anya, it was time to talk about it. Of course, I didn’t want to lead with that. I’d give Anya a chance to settle. Maybe a few glasses into the bottle of Macallan and it might just come pouring out anyway.
I asked about Henry and Aruba and she seemed to answer in short sentences. I hoped nothing was wrong with the two of them. I changed the subject because I knew Anya preferred to give bad news in her own time.
‘So,’ I asked her. ‘When is the film going to be released?’
‘Later this year but I haven’t got an exact date.’
‘So there’ll be a premiere and everything?’ I was hoping for an invite to the red carpet.
‘I suppose.’ Anya more or less shrugged off the fact that she’d been in a Hollywood movie that starred Matt Damon.
‘Well don’t get too excited.’ I smiled at her but Anya, although it never happened often, hadn’t smiled once since she’d arrived.
‘Is something up, Anya?’ I asked. ‘You seem really distant.’
‘I am a little distracted,’ she said. ‘I just discovered I’m expecting a baby of all things.’
The room filled with a heavy silence, made heady by the amount of whisky we’d already drank.
Anya said the words, “I’m expecting a baby,” as if she’d just announced she had a touch of flu. After letting the information seep through for a second or so, I was in the process of leaping up to congratulate her when I noticed her body language. A slight shift so that she was facing away from me on the sofa stopped me.
‘Hold on, Anya,’ I said. ‘Pregnant? But … but should you be drinking?’
‘Oh it’s all right, I’m not keeping it.’
Anya got up and shook out the long jersey dress she was wearing. It clung to her slender frame, falling in gentle ripples to the floor. She reached down to the coffee table and picked up a filo pastry parcel. She eyed it suspiciously, nibbled a small piece and put the pastry back onto the plate.
I leaned back and stared at her but she didn’t turn to face me.
‘How could you do that?’ I demanded of her, willing her to turn around.
‘It vos just a little bite. I’ll throw it in the bin if you’re going to be so fussy.’
I got up. ‘I don’t mean the bloody filo pastry! You can put it were you bloody like. I mean how could you say so casually that you’re pregnant and then announce you’re getting rid of it in almost the same breath?’
‘Vell, it’s easy. I got pregnant. I don’t vont to become a mother, so …’ She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “get with the programme.”
‘And that’s it?’ I said, practically gasping.
‘Look, darling.’ Anya took both my hands. ‘I know I can come across as a bit cool at times, but I have thought it through. I never vonted to have children. You know that. I found a man with grown-up ones so he’d be over all that parenthood stuff. I have my career to think about and I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. You of all people should know that.’
‘But, Anya …’
‘Vye are you crying, Madge? It really isn’t a big deal, you know? I’m not upset about it.’ She put her head down and moved away from me. ‘Not really.’
‘You said not really, so that means you’re a little upset, right?’ I said, trying not to sound like a five-year-old child.
‘Madge, stop trying to make me into something I’m not. I never planned this you know?’
‘Well we don’t always plan for these things but I thought that …’ I wiped a tear from my cheek.
‘You thought vot?’
‘I thought you loved Henry and that he loved you. Have you guys really thought this through? I mean properly?’ I had managed to stop the tears and I was trying to be as reasonable as I could be.
‘I have thought about it,’ said Anya. ‘It’s all I’ve thought about since I found out for fuck’s sake.’ She was angry now. Turning to me with elbows poking outwards, she jammed her fists onto her hips.
‘I see,’ I said.
I began to clear away the food from the table. Rushing to the kitchen I scraped all of it into the bin, almost letting the serving dishes fall in too.
‘Do you have to be so dramatic, Madge?’ Anya had followed me and stood in the doorway.
‘Do you have to be so callous?’ I spun around, sighing heavily with rage.
‘Callous? Ha!’ she snapped.
‘Yes, callous. It’s a tiny baby.’ I pointed to her flat stomach.
‘It’s the size of a pea!’ Anya held up her thumb and index finger to indicate how small the baby must be.
‘So?’ I demanded. ‘But wait, didn’t you say you’ve thought about it? It’s all you’ve been thinking about since you discovered you were pregnant? What about Henry? Are you sure he feels the same or did you just talk him round to your way of thinking?’
‘He doesn’t have an opinion because it’s my body and my life at stake here.’
She’d picked up her whisky glass on the way to the kitchen and had been slooshing it around as she spoke. Then she tilted her head and knocked back the last dregs.
‘Your life isn’t at stake, Anya. The baby’s is,’ I said, shaking my head, eyes begging her to see sense.
‘There you go, being dramatic again.’ She pushed past me and placed the glass down hard on the draining board.
‘You haven’t told him, have you?’ I asked after a few seconds of staring at Anya’s slender back and the way the joints at the top of the spine formed perfect little ridges down her bent neck. She didn’t look up. ‘I might have known,’ I said. ‘You’re heartless, Anya. I never thought I’d ever say it but you really are.’ I crossed my arms over my chest.
‘How dare you!’ Finally, she turned around. ‘You have no right to judge me.’
‘Why not? You’re doing something that’s cold and hateful and I don’t approve.’
‘I don’t need your approval, Madge. I didn’t even have to tell you.’
‘And I wish you hadn’t.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Madge. Grow up. Vimen do this all the time. Ve have choices. It’s not the Dark Ages you know.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it any more, Anya. Do you mind?’ I stormed out of the kitchen and back into the living room. I stood with my back to the room, hands over the mantel of the redundant fireplace.
‘Not at all,’ she said storming in after me. ‘I should be going anyvay.’
I turned to see her pick up her bag and look around as if she’d lost something.
‘You can get your jacket on the way out,’ I said with a toss of my head.
Anya kept her eyes lowered as she reached into her bag and pulled out a small jewellery box. She held it up in my direction. We both stared at it, hanging in the wide space between us.
‘This is your present,’ she said, her voice softening.
‘You didn’t have to buy me a present.’
‘Vot do you mean? I alvays bring you something back from my travels.’
‘I know but it … it doesn’t feel the same.’
‘Here, take it anyvay. I had you in mind ven I bought it.’
I reluctantly went over to Anya who had tentatively taken two steps towards me, holding out her arm. I took the box and opened it with trembling fingers.
‘It’s … it’s very nice,’ I said, feeling the tears threatening to reappear.
I blinked hard as I looked at the brooch inside the box, encrusted in rubies and diamonds. It was pretty, the sort of thing I would wear once in a while if I wanted to be sophisticated and ladylike.
‘It’s antique,’ she said. ‘I found it in a little shop ven I visited this gorgeous bazaar in –’ She paused a moment, feline eyes looking at me through dark lashes. ‘It’s a star. Like you. You’ve been doing so much and doing so vell, I thought you deserved it.’
‘Thank you. But I’m no star. It’s only work, a job; it’s what I do.’
‘Business owner, bag designer, dress designer.’ She finally smiled but it didn’t last long when she saw the stony look I was giving her.
‘I thought you said you had to go,’ I said looking over my shoulder at the door.
‘Um, yes,’ Anya said faltering over her words – something she never ever did. ‘I should. It’s late.’
She put her bag under her arm. I put the present on the coffee table. We both walked quietly to the front door. Anya opened it once she’d unhooked her jacket. She didn’t put it on.
‘I should have called you a taxi,’ I said, the thought only crossing my mind then.
‘No matter. The air vill do me good after all that booze. Clear my head.’
‘You mean so you can think? Reconsider?’
‘No, Madge.’ Anya held my wrist and squeezed very tightly. ‘You don’t have the right to judge me; you know that don’t you? And you know this is my decision to make and not yours?’
She left quickly. I’d opened my mouth. The words: “I’m sorry, I have no right. I’ve been an outright bitch,” were on the tip of my tongue but I couldn’t form the sounds. I was just too angry with Anya. Angry that she could be so blasé about an abortion. It wasn’t right. At least if she’d said she’d agonized over the decision I might not have felt so awful and so livid at the same time. But she had no kind of remorse and I couldn’t see past that at the time.
That night marked the beginning of the decline of a fabulous friendship. Anya was the best friend I ever had. Even better than Hilary Davidson who found me kissing her boyfriend, Jack, in the Wendy House in Kindergarten. She wasn’t angry with me. She just said I could have him as long as she could have the red truck I’d been hogging all day.
Like all the friendships I’ve ever had, there had always been an expiry date. Anya’s friendship should never have had one. We didn’t always see eye to eye on everything – I didn’t know a healthy friendship that existed in which two people were in total agreement all the time. I expected us to fall out once in a while.
But I let Anya walk out of my house, popping my head out of the door briefly and seeing her narrow hips glide from side to side, back erect and not looking back. What I should have done was run after Anya, drag her back, and ask her how the pregnancy made her feel. Despite her coolness I of all people should have known that Anya’s decision was not one she would have taken as lightly as she’d made out.
I knew, from nights spent propping up bars and talking into all hours, we’d both wondered what we’d be like as mothers and hoped that if we ever had babies we’d have them at the same time so that we could share the experience. Despite what she’d said earlier, like me, Anya did want to have a child one day. She’d lied about never wanting them, which should have alerted me as to how cut up she was feeling inside. Instead, I lashed out because I’d lost the child I wanted so much and there was Anya getting rid of one she didn’t.
If I’d gone after Anya, been big enough to apologize for my rash response, I might have found her with a tear in her eye, halfway up the mews, leaning onto one of the gates a few doors down from me, unable to keep up her elegant departure. She’d be there, waiting for her best friend to call her back in. Talk to her. I would have told her to tell me all about what happened, how she found out, and I would have told her she wasn’t alone. I’d tell her that I’d support her decision, no matter what. And it would have been sincere.
But I just wasn’t the right kind of friend for Anya that evening – I let her down.
When Anthony came home, later that night, unusually for him he’d had a lot to drink. I was completely sober and lying in bed with the lights off. He staggered around downstairs for a while and when he came finally came to bed, I was pretending to be asleep. Anthony was extremely horny, whispering lager fumes into my ear, asking if I was still awake, hand on my boob. I had to pretend to wake up from my fake sleep and tell him he had no chance.
‘I’m not in the mood,’ I said, yawning and rolling away from him.
‘Story of my life,’ he muttered. I sat up and put on my light.
‘What are you even talking about?’ I blasted at him.
Anthony had staggered to standing, negotiating the buttons on the front of his shirt. He looked at me, confused. I suspect he thought he was being amusing making a statement like that.
‘Oh, don’t go all moody on me, Magenta,’ he said, collapsing onto the bed because he was having problems taking his jeans off with his shoes still on.
‘Anya told me she’s having an abortion, Anthony,’ I said.
Anthony rocked back and forth, realized the shoes were his problem and slipped them off. He seemed to ignore what I’d said, taking his jeans off with his toes and lying down in his partly unbuttoned shirt. His eyes were closed.
‘Anthony, did you hear me?’
He opened his eyes halfway. ‘Yes I did. And?’ he said.
‘And I’m angry. How do you think I feel?’
‘Oh you’re not bringing up the miscarriage again,’ he said in a slow and extremely sleepy voice. Before I could draw in a breath to answer back Anthony was asleep and he was snoring. In that moment I wanted to leap up, kneel over him, shake him by his shoulders, and ask him, “How could you be so cruel?”