The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

“But… doesn’t she want to get back? To her fiancé, or… I don’t know… I mean, it’s not that far for her to get home.”

Irena shrugs and frowns at me. “Well, is nearly an hour, and what for? Just to come back in the morning? No, we agreed. She can stay here. No problem for us. We have the little attic flat. Is sitting empty. And she seems nice. Nice for me to have a girl friend to chat to. Why do I want to hear about football and this boys’ rubbish all of the time?”

“So, you mean she’s going to stay every weekend?” I ask, realising I sound slightly horrified.

Irena frowns and shrugs. “I don’t know. We will see.”

For a moment I contemplate making a discreet exit. I could make my way back through the bar, say a quick congratulations to Stu, who will be stuck serving drinks all night anyway, and then quietly slip away. I’ve shown my face, that’s all I really needed to do.

Irena follows my line of vision, gazing over towards Libby. “Ahh, but perhaps I am climbing up the wrong tree with Rachel,” she says sagely, “perhaps it is this Libby who is someone you like.”

“No! God no. She’s just a friend. I mean, she was a friend. A long time ago.”

“Well, go say hello to your old friend,” Irena orders, suddenly reverting to her usual brusque self and slapping me on the arm. “She knows nobody. Go talk to her!”

As Irena marches off, I stand motionless and watch Libby. She smiles politely at something the guy next to her says – a bloke called Nick, who’s all right when he’s sober but turns into a bit of a letch when he’s had a few. And by the way he’s leaning into Libby, he might have had a few already. I watch her laugh unconvincingly at his joke and then turn casually to the two women on the other side of her, smiling, trying to get in on their conversation instead of being stranded in a one-on-one with leery Nick.

Libby was always confident when it came to chatting to people. She was socially developed beyond her years, comfortable in her own skin. She spent most of her childhood around adults and learned to communicate in an adult fashion at an age when most of us were shifting awkwardly from one foot to another and trying not to look like our very existence was a cause for embarrassment. But she never had any friends. How could she? She didn’t go to school, didn’t mix with people her own age – except me, obviously – and very occasionally Michael, Tom and Max. We’d all hang out now and again, but in truth it never worked that well.

She got on well with Max – everyone did. He was used to making nice chit-chat due to all the church events he had to attend, and the two of them could hold something of a proper conversation. But Michael – having been in single-sex education from the age of seven and still painfully shy around anyone but us – didn’t know what to say to her. And Tom was too crass, full of sarcasm and bad language. A couple of times she pulled him up on his use of expletives – those that referred to parts of the female anatomy in a particularly derogatory way. She was never fearful of expressing her point of view, and I loved that about her, admired her sense of conviction, but being told off like a naughty schoolboy didn’t go down well with Tom, who doubled his use of offensive language. To make matters harder, although Libby was well-rehearsed in the art of conversation, she didn’t know anything about normal teenage life: TV programmes, video games, celebrities… it meant nothing to her. Thinking back, I can’t imagine what the two of us spent so many hours talking about, or what we could have possibly had in common. I think maybe she was more the talker and I was more the listener. I don’t know. All I know is somehow it worked. Easily. Comfortably.

Right now, though, Libby doesn’t look all that comfortable. The two women (I don’t know their names, but I think Michael might have had a very brief thing with one, or possibly both, of them) are too engaged in what appears to be a hilarious anecdote to notice Libby. Nick keeps edging in close, talking in her ear, and she smiles and replies politely, but she’s leaning away slightly, trying to avoid what I imagine might be beer breath.

I can’t just leave her. I at least have to check if she’s okay.

I weave my way through the groups of people towards her, checking my phone again as I go, wishing Michael would text me back and let me know how he is.

Libby spots me as I approach her table and stands up swiftly. She looks strangely happy to see me, like she’s been awaiting my arrival. She steps forwards, a little unsteady, and with a hint of disappointment I realise her enthusiastic greeting is probably directly related to her alcohol consumption.

“Hi,” she smiles, pink-cheeked, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Hi,” I respond, stuffing my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.

We stare at each other, waiting for the other one to speak, then we open our mouths at the same time and pause there, like two overly polite strangers standing by an open door. After you; no, after you.

“Having fun?” I ask, braving the first move.

“Um… well…” she glances around her, “I… well… I suppose…”

I laugh a little at her poor attempt at diplomacy, and so does she.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting this tonight and I don’t know anyone, so…”

“Bit weird?”

“Bit weird,” she nods.

I glance at Nick, slumped in his seat, eyeing Libby up and down, his eyes swimming lazily.

“All right, Nick?” I call abruptly.

“All right, Jay,” he drawls, raising his depleted pint to me, before shamelessly