“That doesn’t mean she’s dead, darling. Why don’t you go and pick her up? I’d love to meet little Sophie. It would be great if you can bring someone. Otherwise, you’ll spend the whole time in your room again.”
“I won’t this time.”
“Ben’s coming, and he misses you too,” she says, sighing.
“Okay. Message received loud and clear. I’m pulling into Margate, Mum, have to go!”
Margate is a totally different beast from Broadgate. It’s a big town, for one. Its regeneration is picking up steam. It’s cool, fizzing with artistic buzz thanks to the new Turner Contemporary art gallery on the seafront, a myriad of little cafés and boutiques, and now, apparently, even a hotel owned by heroin-chic aughts rockband the Libertines. In comparison, Broadgate is like the quaint old nan who lives down the coast. I glance at my watch—I’m early, and I’m not allowed to be early, as Sophie will be sleeping. I pull up at the beachfront car park and decide to head onto the beach.
As I stand on the enormous sandy beach scattered with sunbathers eager to make the most of the warming weather, my toes just touch the water and the midday sun feels so delicious on my bare arms and face. I take a photograph of the water lapping at my toes and post it to Instagram with the caption#BeachVibes.
Then I scroll through my Instagram. The night sky with Budapest, a steaming bowl of goulash, a big mug of beer, a sunflower, a loaf of bread, a cake fail. There is a shot of Charlie holding her baby, which I hilariously captionedCharlie with the Other Woman. I scroll back to before Charlie was pregnant, and there’s the shot of me as a bridesmaid at her wedding, wearing lavender crepe. I was the only one in the wedding party who looked on the verge of tears. I scroll back farther and hit the London era. Me and Charlie about to seeMatilda, the shining lights of the theater behind us. Me and Charlie outsideHamilton. Me and Charlie under a duvet watching a movie at our flat, the scene so familiar. Wine. Crisps. Our little movie-picking system of cards strewn across the table. Me and Charlie dressed up for Secret CinemaDirty Dancing; it’s a mid-motion shot of me falling forward, the watermelon tumbling out of my hands and Charlie mid–explosive laugh. Me and Charlie at the Tate Modern, where she got us thrown out for sticking her head in Duchamp’sFountain(which is actually a urinal). It was this Mara that I needed to be with more people. This laughing, joyous, happy Mara. I miss her and my heart aches.
It’s after 1 p.m. now and time to head to Charlie’s house. She was very specific about not knocking on the door before 1 p.m., asit could wake Sophie from her nap,if she ever fucking has one, and I try to do everything just as she asks. I’m apprehensive about seeing her. I can’t deny I need to hear her say sorry again about missing our trip.
Charlie lives just two streets back from the old town in a gorgeous bright white and orange brick Victorian-era home. Her husband, Alex, a successful London upper-management type, had spotted a gap in the market and converted a small car park into a heated outdoor street-food area called MarGraze, with a side hustle of art events through the summer. Charlie was a graphic designer and so she created the “look.” It’s a clever venture, and something Broadgate could desperately do with. The car park at the lido is always half-empty, and what better way to attract some bathers away from the sea than with a low-key street-food hub. I should talk to the guy at the coffee-to-go cart.
Before I’ve had a chance to use her huge iron knocker, I hear the barking and the front door open as Charlie, ten-month-old on her hip, flings open the front door, smiling like mad.
“Look at your face!” she says, smiling warmly, if a little wearily.
“I’m melting, let me in,” I say, grinning. “Oh wow, you’re so grown, Sophie!” I shout over the noise of the dog, trying to elicit a smile out of the little thing. But she cries louder and buries her head in Charlie’s neck.
Charlie looks gorgeous, if exhausted. Her dark curly hair is tossed back in a low ponytail, and her athleisure wear is fresh, hanging off her in a trail of muted-nude cottons and viscose.
“Shut the hell up!” she snaps at the dog as it leaps and yelps, and she opens the door, wedging herself between it and me so the dog can’t escape. “Quick! Barney got out yesterday and nearly got run over by an Uber Eats.”
“You have Uber here?” I marvel. “Hello, Barney,” I say, patting him awkwardly on the head, as he leaps up, getting caught in my bag straps and almost yanking me over with his weight. “Yes, yes, we’re very happy to see Mara.”
“He’s a very good but naughty boy,” Charlie says, as she leans in for a kiss. She smells of perfume and breast milk, an overpowering cover-up of domestic scent. I instantly feel loss. “Alex will be back in twenty, and he’s going to take her out in the pram so we can talk, uninterrupted, for an entire hour at least.”
“The dog or the baby?”
“Both.” She laughs.
“With respect, that would be great,” I say, following her in the front door. “Hello, little one,” I say in my best high voice, taking Sophie’s little hand in my fingers, but once more she buries her head into Charlie’s neck and squirms.
“She doesn’t really know you. Give her time,” Charlie says, waving me through to the open living area.
“I’m sorry we’ve not caught up more,” I say. I want to add,I have tried, but I know the role I must play here: supportive, understanding, and definitely not in any way at all an added pressure to a new mum.
Moving in with Charlie had been so easy, it felt like fate brought me there. I needed a flat and Charlie needed a flatmate, and the rent was cheap and it was a short bus ride from my cinema job. I answered the ad and was the first person she met at her tiny Hackney Wick new build. I was early and she was watching the last fifteen minutes ofThe Notebookwhen I arrived.
“Shhh,” she said, waving me in and motioning me toward the couch as she finished it, tissue in her hands.
I love to watch people watching things I love for the first time,and so Charlie watched the end ofThe Notebook, and I watched Charlie watching it. But, you know, subtly, so she didn’t see me looking at her like a weirdo.
“Okay, I’ve fucking seen it now,” she said, her eyes red and glassy, turning it off as the credits rolled. “The way people go on and on about it.” She rolled her eyes.
“It’s one of those movies,” I said, nodding. “Hopelessly romantic or soppy shit?”
“Can I say soppy shit?” she said, standing up to get me a drink. “Do you think that movie has spoiled everyone’s expectations about love?”
“Yes,” I said, fresh from my humiliating breakup with my own Noah.
“I’m Charlie,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Mara. Sagittarius.”
