Lucy's House

When she moved in to the house on the end of the street, I knew straight away I wanted to be her friend. I also knew there was a fat chance of that happening, which is to say, a very slim chance indeed.

She got out of the car, and she looked so... effortless. Like everything I wanted to be, and never was.

I watched, eagle-eyed, from our living room window, twitching the curtains. Removal men handled piece after piece of gleaming dark wood furniture. Was that two four posters?

That first week, a devastatingly handsome man could be seen with a paintbrush, touching up the front door, or giving the fence a once over.

I'm going to talk about how she looks, now, because, while it's not the most important thing (of course) it does comprise the first impression.

I watched her usher her kids into that house for the first time, and I thought, Wow. Not many people can look good in olive-green overalls. She must have abs like a washboard under those.

You look at her, and you think gorgeous. If you look a little closer, (and I did) you realise: she's actually more ordinary-looking than you might think, underneath the polish. I don't mean that to be catty! She's easier on the eye than I am, no doubt about that, but not the supermodel she appears to be. At first glance. From a little way off. But this only makes her more impressive in my eyes.

She looks better than she looks, do you see? This is the thing about Lucy: she brings her A-game. Daily. Her hair and make up are always beautifully done, her outfit carefully chosen. If you happen to be walking past BodyTech on your lunch break, like me, you'll see her in there every weekday. Goodness knows when she manages to eat lunch. Working those impossibly long legs on one of the treadmills lined up by the windows. Her athleisure-wear always as carefully curated and co-ordinated as any other outfit she puts on. I doubt that woman has ever so much as put the bins out without consideration for what she's wearing.

I'm making her sound terribly shallow, aren't I? Not at all. She just cares. About details. And she's competent. She thinks about all the eventualities and repercussions. Actually, just like I do... she's just better at it. At actually actioning things. Me? I get frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Paralysed in the beam of my own indecision, as the eighteen-wheeler of To-Do Lists comes bearing down on me.

I would absolutely take as much care over my appearance as Lucy does, if I was halfway competent at it. I'd straighten this frizzy mop on my head, if I could coerce myself out of bed earlier. And could tell one end of a hair-straightener from the other. She's a Type A personality, and I'm just a failed Type A personality. A wannabe.

She's one of those people that's got her shit together. She's not just on-time for things; she's usually a little early, offering to help out. She's that mum at the baby-group who has a spare packet of wipes for the inevitable ditz who hasn't brought enough. (Me. I'm the ditz.) Her kids are always nicely turned out, too. Quiet. Polite. Their hairgrips match. (What sorcery even is that?)

I suppose I had a bit of a harmless crush on her. Whenever I was near her at the school gate, she always dazzled me, and I never knew what to say. She smelled clean, with a faint zing of oranges and herbs that reminded me of that lovely restaurant Roger and I went to in Greece.

Lucy makes the most of whatever she has at her disposal, and she's good at it. She's gregarious and charming. I know I'll never be that person. I've tried, and I've wished, but I always end up being the grubby, chubby, disorganised, third-tier friend. I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards, even when I've really made an effort.

I'm just Sue. The cheery one with dimples and a dull, dependable husband. The one with a whirlwind of children just this side of cheeky. I'm not saying we didn't know when to stop, Roger and I, only that we found out by trial and error. Mainly error. And the thing is: you can't put them back. Anyway, we love Jimmy, really we do. Wouldn't swap him for the world. And Roger's had the snip, now, and it'll all even out and get a bit easier once the kids are all a bit bigger, won't it?

My kids have either got clean clothes, clean shoes, or clean hands and faces. Pick two. Lucy's kids always look like they've stepped out of a catalogue. (For toys and clothes, of course. Not children. That would be odd.)

Sometimes, if one of the kids has a good report, or their teacher has named them Star of the Week or something momentous like that, we'll go to Poppy's. It's a little café very close to the school, and it does a roaring trade, because lots of other parents do the same thing. Last day of term? Why don't we have a muffin at Poppy's! Done well on your spelling test? Let's get a bambuccino! Half-term? Afternoon tea? Be rude not to!

I'll be honest, sometimes I could see through huge front windows that Lucy was already in there with her girls, Daria and Georgie. You know what I did? Kept walking.

I clam up, see. Get these attacks of shyness. I'm not good enough to be around her. I'll talk too much. Overshare. She'll think I'm annoying, or one of the kids will throw a tantrum, and my face will adopt that beet-stained-ghost complexion that is flattering on precisely nobody...

I'm rambling again, aren't I? See, that's my problem. Once the floodgates are opened, you better watch out. Sometimes, it's easier to save myself the embarrassment and just... keep walking.

"But Muuuuuum," Sally whined, "You said I could try a latte if it was just one shot, you said-"

"Yeah," David kicked a pebble expertly along the pavement, "You said. I was gonna have the deathbychocolate cake if I practised my times-tables. And I did." He kicked it again, it bounced weirdly, and hurtled towards the traffic. I winced and hurried them along. Hoping he hadn't dinged a car, but too cowardly to look.

"It's too busy in there today," I said. "We'll go tomorrow."

+

It was actually several days later when I finally kept my promise. We were firmly ensconced at our table. Sally was halfway through a wildly overpriced cupcake, and, incidentally, thanks to the towering frosting, her sugar quota for the week. David was working on the richest slice of chocolate cake I've ever seen, and I should think he'd had enough sugar for the whole year. Jimmy was cheerfully mangling a bit of vanilla sponge in fat little fingers. I was so busy scrubbing at this mess with the last wipe from the packet, I didn't see her come in.

When I caught sight of her at the counter, I chivvied the two older ones to eat faster.

"We have to go soon," I said. "Daddy will be home, and he will want to know how you got on with your presentation on Ancient Rome." David pulled a face, undoubtedly knowing full well that if Roger was home, he was probably already up to his armpits in his latest project in the garage.

"They all wore togas," David said. "What else is there to tell?" I hope he'd been a bit more thorough for Miss Peters, but before I could say some encouraging words to that effect, Sally butted in with her trademark whine.

"But I'm still waiting for my latte!" She was pouting. "You said."

"We can take it with us."

"It's not the same."

A slender shadow fell across the table. I could smell her soap, and already I could feel the beetroot-blotchiness starting. I looked up.

God, she's a vision! Her pale blue shirt brings out her eyes, which are thickly lashed, lightly made up, and sparkling.

Not with personality. With tears.

I didn't think it was possible to feel more flustered.

"Could I have a word?" Her voice was melodic, a little high, but it didn't crack.

"Ummm.... of course," I said, pulling out a chair.

Lucy didn't sit.

"Daria. Georgie. You stay here while I go and get our order, okay? We'll be right there." She pointed to the counter.

Jimmy had unsnaked himself from the safety straps. Unwilling for him to dive headfirst onto the hard floor, I scooped him up and carried him on my hip. We trailed behind Lucy's deft strides in a shuffling slalom between tables and chairs. I glance back. The children looked perfectly civilised. There's no time to enjoy that relief, because Jimmy started squirming to get down. Sometimes, I swear that tot is 40% octopus.

"Do you have a problem with me?" Lucy said, when I fell into step beside her. Her voice was lower now, lips barely moving.

"What? Me? No! Of course not, why would-"

"You avoid me," she said, spine straight, face still. "You have ever since I moved in, and I don't know what I could have done to upset you, because we've hardly spoken. Is that it? Should I have come and knocked on your door to introduce myself? Is that the way it's done 'round here?"

I'm not good at managing several emotions at once. I was reeling with shock that Lucy even noticed me, much less noticed I'd been avoiding her. I was also astonished that she was upset by it. Why should it bother her? Why would she want anything to do with me?

Hot on the heels of this Triple Decker Surprise Sundae, with its heaping side of Disbelief, there's a smattering of Confusion. She sounds... bitter. Insecure. Lonely. Rejected. Perhaps I'm projecting, because (and this is truly absurd) I feel as though I am standing in front of a mirror. Short and dowdy as I am, with my frizzy halo of grey roots and split ends, covered in juice and crumbs, and the guilt of three missed dental appointments. It's all a bit hard to swallow.

I started to deny it, but it's no use.

"Honestly, yes," I blurted. "I have been avoiding you, but it's not you, I swear. I'm just..." It sounded pathetic, but forced it out anyway. "I'm just embarrassed."

There was a weighty pause. Lucy dashed away an escaped teardrop with one dainty knuckle.

"Look at me," I say, still wrestling with my little cake-crumb-covered-cephalopod. (It's in his hair, now, because of course it is.) "It's just chaos all the time, and you're always so... so..."

I don't want to say perfect. I can hear it echoing in my head, and it doesn't sound like a compliment. For once, I catch it before it comes out.

"You always look so put together."

I can see the waiter coming with the latte for Sally, and I feel the gravity of mother pull me out of the orbit of friend. It stings to pull away, like something were taking root, and I wonder if it stings for her, too. I'm brushing her off again, aren't I? I don't mean to! How can I fix this?

"We should catch up over a cup of tea," I said. "We're practically neighbours, aren't we?"

"I'm not doing anything this afternoon," Lucy has a little colour in her cheeks. "Would you like to bring your kids over to play?"

+

This was it. This was the dream. Getting to befriend Lucy. The collected, composed, and beautiful Lucy. Of course, this came with the un-rejectable additional prize of... well, being next to the composed, collected, fashionable Lucy. Trailing behind her in that long, long shadow, like a dowdy comet with a tail of cake crumbs and dabs of paint. That might have been off-putting for a coward like me, except that it was also tied to the irresistible titbit of getting to look around inside Lucy's house.

I knew it was unhealthy, probably more so than the artisanal sausage roll, caramel macchiato, and pecan brownie I'd just enjoyed... But tendrils of the hardy and perennial Comparison Plant were already taking root, vines clinging and twining...

How dumpy my legs were next to hers. My pear-shaped bottom wobbling along next to her pilates-chisled physique. (Had the woman ever seen a carb?)

At the end of our street, I couldn't help but notice how her front gate wasn't hanging off it's hinges, how freshly painted the front door was.

Sally and David, blessed with better social skills than their mother, had already made firm friends with Daria and Georgie. They were all set to go stampeding down that shining hallway in their grimy footwear.

"Shoes off!" I called.

They kicked them off into a heap, like a pair of cats that both walked through a muddy puddle, and kept going, hardly missing a beat.

"Come on," Daria was saying, "come and see the playroom-"

"Cool!" That was David. Apparently there was a games console.

Specks of dirt cascaded off the wheels of the pushchair. I grimaced. Lucy smiled.

"Tea?"

I smiled right back.

"That would be great, thanks."

As long as I kept pushing aside the persistent vines, Lucy was pleasant company. The kitchen gleamed, the mugs matched. I wanted there to be a flaw, even if it was just that the stools at the counter weren't comfortable, or that Lucy turned out to be a bit stuck up.

Not a bit of it. You've never met someone more thoughtful, more adept at putting you at your ease.

At first, I felt like there was too much of me, too much of us. My shabby coat didn't belong hung next to her stylish one, any more than it did draped over the banister, or the back of a chair. Surely, my homespun kids and I would bounce off the shining surfaces and go rocketing back into the clutter and turmoil where we belonged.

I was wrong. We spent a lovely afternoon, and as an apology for upsetting her, I ordered pizza. Lucy's astonished look was gratifying. She looked almost scandalised.

"Your kids can have pizza, right?" I wondered if there was a gluten allergy I should've thought about.

"Oh, sure, sure," she said. "Only, I don't order in because it'd put us over the budget for the week."

Something went rrrrr in my brain. This huge house, all the nice clothes... it gave an aura of, well... if not wealth, then financial comfort. It was jarring, but it only lasted a moment.

"It's my treat," I said.

There was plenty, too. Enough that we could box some up for Marcus when he came home.

Lucy brought her fingers to her mouth as if to bite on her nails, and then stopped, as if remembering what they cost.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"Sure. Sure. I'll just... I'll tell Marcus you got me a salad."

Her eyes flicked down the hallway.

Maybe this was our cue to leave.

+

Unsure if I'd offended her again, I worried Lucy wouldn't invite us back, but I was wrong.

The next time we visited, a brand-new shoe rack lurked just inside the front door with a dustpan tucked beside it. Shoes stowed, coats hung, and pram parked, Lucy urged the children to go through to the playroom.

"Make yourself comfy, Sue. I'll join you in the kitchen in a moment."

Walking away, I heard the sound of bristles on the polished floor. I knew it! I knew we'd just be a bother, besmirching her picturesque home!

"Sorry!" she scuttled to keep up with me, and my guilt was mirrored in her face. "It's just that Marcus... well, he likes things a certain way, you know. Just so. He's a bit of a neat freak. He gets... funny... if he walks in to any sort of mess..."

He should sweep it up himself then, the crotchety sod. He's got young kids, he needs to lighten up.

I hitched a smile on my face.

"Tea?"

Having skipped the coffee and pastries, I could enjoy it properly this time.

+

The next time we visited, Lucy parked the pram in the mudroom for us. "Our doorway is so narrow," she said. "This will be much easier for you." See how she did that? She blamed her door rather than telling me I should hose off the wheels. She almost convinced me, as well.

When we went inside, the coat rack had been moved further down the hall, next to the playroom. I said nothing about it. Nor did Lucy. When we walked past it to the kitchen, I saw an ugly patch of plaster on the wall behind it. Like someone patched up a hole in a hurry.

David, always one to feel at home everywhere, tried the playroom door. It was locked.

"We're re-doing it," Lucy said. "Maybe another time."

I did not look at the patched up bit of wall, but I could feel it looking at me, and daring me to say something.

+

The following week, I insisted Lucy bring her kids to my house. Her home was undoubtedly nicer, but it wasn't fair, her having to host all the time.

After that, we went to the park, or for a picnic. Her girls wore long sleeves even on warm days.

Tell me: as a good friend (and I do consider myself her friend now), how long do you ignore the cracks for?