Best friends shouldn’t have secrets, should they? Well I reckon not, anyway. It feels like I’ve been betrayed even though I know that she never meant to hurt me.
I think it all started about five years ago. She’d been on a diet for several months and it worked. All our friends wanted to know how she’d done it, wanted to find out if it was a slimming club or magical soup which had transformed her previously dumpy size 16 figure into a svelte size 10. I worked it out; she’d got herself a personal trainer but I could never get her to admit to it. She never seemed to go out so much and I know for a fact that she wasn’t going to the gym regularly or anything so whatever it was, was happening behind closed doors.
And then there was the suntan. She was supposed to have gone to Bristol to see her Nan for the week and she came back looking more like she’d been in Barbados. Of course, she pretended that it was fake but no fake tan ever looked so authentic. Or peeled.
Her taste in clothes didn’t so much change as just go upmarket. She would reluctantly come with me on Saturday mornings to look for that night’s clubbing gear but she stopped buying from our usual high street haunts. She did, however, appear in a seemingly endless array of sparkly outfits, the like of which I’d never seen in our town.
It was Billy who finally let the cat out of the bag one night when he’d wandered outside of the club to get some air and overheard her on her mobile. When he came back in, we all thought he must be drunk but then she came back in and caught us in full flow talking about her.
It just seemed so ridiculous. Imagine, my best friend, the fifth member of Abba and I’d had no idea. I was so taken aback that I left the club and sat outside on the wall. Billy chased after me.
‘Can you forgive her?’ he asked me.
‘Only if she can get us free tickets.’
‘She has to get us free tickets; knowing me, knowing you....she has to’