The Long Way to the River

Esme told her mother on a Thursday evening and called Leila fifteen minutes afterwards.

“Can we walk?” she asked.

Leila checked the timetable on the wall, not because she needed permission to care about her friend but because she was learning that caring worked better when she knew when the last bus left.

“Yes. By the library in half an hour?”

“Please.”

Mum was reading on the bed. Her wrist lay on a cushion beside her.

“Esme?” she asked.

Leila nodded.

“Go. Toby and I are going to discover whether the television has any channels he hasn't criticised.”

Toby looked up. “It probably doesn't.”

Esme was waiting outside the library in a coat too warm for the evening. She had put it on as though leaving the house required armour rather than weather protection.

They walked towards the river. At first Esme talked so quickly that Leila could not ask questions. Her mother had been surprised, then practical, then hurt that Esme had not said anything sooner. Her father had suggested making a list, which apparently made everyone angry in a different way. Nobody had shouted. This had not prevented Esme feeling as though she had broken something valuable in front of them.

“Mum said she only arranged those things because I wanted them.”

“Did you?”

“I said yes.”

“That isn't quite the same question.”

“I know. Now she knows too. It's all very educational.”

They reached the path beside the water. The evening light made the river look smoother than it was. Near the bridge, a shopping trolley lay half submerged, collecting leaves around its wheels. Leila resisted taking out her notebook.

“What happened after?” she asked.

“Mum asked what I'd rather do. I said I didn't know. She said that was fine, which made me cry because I'd spent weeks preparing for an argument she didn't have.”

Leila looked at her friend. Esme's eyes were red at the edges. There was a tiny smear of mascara beneath one, too faint to mention.

“So it went well?”

“I think so. I still feel awful.”

“You can feel awful after something goes well.”

“Excellent. Another possibility.”

They walked without speaking for a while. A man passed with two dogs pulling in opposite directions. Esme moved to give him room and nearly stepped in a puddle she had been carefully avoiding.

“I've been horrible about other people's plans,” she said eventually. “Saying things like at least you know what you want, as though knowing is an exam you either pass or don't.”

“You've never said that to me.”

“I've thought it. About your art.”

Leila watched the dogs disappear under the bridge.

“I don't know exactly what I want. I know I want to keep making things. Then I look at university costs and portfolios and whether I could live somewhere else, and it all gets less clear.”

“But you're good.”

“That's a different question too.”

Esme leaned against the railing. “We're becoming very difficult people to reassure.”

Leila smiled. “Maybe we need better reassurance.”

They bought chips from a shop near the bridge, using money Esme had brought and agreeing without drama that Leila would pay next time. They ate standing up because the bench was wet. Esme complained that the vinegar had reached only one side of the paper. Leila turned the packet, which helped nothing and made them both laugh.

After a while, Esme asked about the flat. Leila told her the actual information, including the lack of a date. She also admitted the pencil purchase.

“I would have kept them,” Esme said.

“I wanted to.”

“I know. I mean, I wouldn't have had to return them. That's what I keep not understanding quickly enough.”

Leila looked at her. She did not need Esme to apologise for having money. She did need her sometimes to notice what a choice cost.

“You don't have to feel guilty every time you buy something,” she said.

“I don't. Mostly. I just don't want to make you explain why something isn't easy.”

“Sometimes I'll have to explain. You can't guess everything.”

Esme nodded. Then she reached into her coat pocket and took out a folded leaflet from the university art-school visit.

“I brought you this. I wasn't withholding it as punishment. It got buried.”

Leila unfolded it carefully. Inside, Esme had written notes beside the work she thought Leila would like. Not everything was complimentary. One installation was described as expensive-looking washing. Another had an arrow and the words You would stand here for an hour.

Leila laughed, then found herself unexpectedly close to tears.

“Thank you.”

“You can insult my notes. They're not an assessed component.”

“No. They're good.”

On the way back to the library, they talked about films, a teacher's new haircut and the possibility of going somewhere in the summer that did not require either of them to imagine an entire career. The conversation was not an escape from the important things. It was part of remembering how much of a friendship lived elsewhere.

At the bus stop, Esme hugged her quickly, catching the leaflet between them.

“Tell me when you need me,” she said.

“You too.”

“Even for middle-class catastrophes.”

“Especially the ones with lists.”

Esme smiled and walked towards home. Leila watched her go, then opened the leaflet again. The notes made the missed trip feel like something she had been included in after all, though not in the way she originally wanted.

She caught the bus with six minutes to spare.