Dianne

A couple of years ago I went to visit a friend. She's not my friend
any more, of course, but I couldn't have predicted that then.
Dianne worked in a factory in one of those spindly redbrick mill towns
that snake along the road between Derby and Manchester. The factory
made underwear. Or rather, the women in the factory made underwear and
the men who ran the factory told them what to do. Dianne was somewhere
in-between. She wasn't getting blistered fingers from piecework; but
then again, she wasn't actually in charge of anyone. I think her actual
title was junior marketing executive. It was a stepping stone for her,
just a footfall on the way to becoming marketing director of some big
multi-national. She always had a plan, Dianne, like a hiker who blindly
follows the compass through swamps and thistles, rather than checking
if there's a sheep track to follow. Dianne was going to move to onto a
series of better jobs with bigger companies. Then she'd take a career
break for marriage (to a lawyer or other professional) and kids (two)
at 35 and then become self-employed, running her own marketing
operation from a base in Cornwall, before the age of 40.
As I stepped off the bus outside the factory gates, just catching a
greasy puddle with my trainers, I thought about how much more
successful than me Dianne was going to be. Within a year of graduating,
her salary was already double mine. I wondered why I wasn't more
envious.
It was an indeterminate day, grey and chill. I hurried through the
visitors car park and into reception to be greeted by the fuscia smile
and navy polyester of Sue.
I'll just buzz her for you...oh, sorry, love; she's still in a meeting,
would you like a coffee?
Sue made small talk as she clinked saucers and searched for sugar
sachets.
So you were at college with Dianne, that's nice. Having a meal in and a
girly chat tonight, lovely. Think you'll go shopping tomorrow, super.
She'll be down in a minute, I'm sure; Mr George doesn't usually let
these meetings drag on a Friday.
And her head was down again, back to clue 21 down on her coffee-time
crossword in the magazine.
Sue hadn't really seemed interested in our weekend plans, so I hadn't
bothered telling her the details. We'd go to Dianne's flat in Derby
where she'd pour us both a large glass of wine and ask me how I was.
Then I would listen, whilst she discussed:
a. her problems finding a man
b. her career prospects
c. her inconsiderate flatmates
The following day we'd go into town where she'd buy something
flattering for work and I'd tell her how good she looked in it.
She valued my friendship, I knew. She'd told me. She told me I was her
second best friend. Her best friend was an old schoolmate who was
working in London now. Dianne liked classifying things. I knew all
about her best sexual encounter, her favourite shop, her worst
Christmas.
I slumped down onto one of the green foam-filled chairs, letting my
gaze wander round at the framed black and white prints of the factory's
early days. On the low table next to me was an ashtray with a
half-smoked and hastily stubbed cigarette in it, and a crumpled
tabloid. I flicked through to the stars. Apparently today was going to
herald a turning point in my life, my lucky colour was blue and I
should beware of the letter P. To find out more about my destiny I
should call a premium phone line. The big hand on the clock jerked
towards the hour. Through the glass doors figures streamed past,
pushing up umbrellas.
By the time Dianne came down at 5.35, the car park was almost empty.
She was wearing a black wraparound skirt that skimmed her slim knees,
and a creamy-beige blouse that hinted tastefully at cleavage. Her
blonde hair was swept up into a chignon and she had her black-rimmed
glasses on. She was good at the 'But Miss Jones, you're
beautiful'-look. She would have been wearing stockings under that
skirt, too. She was pulling on a beige Mac. I don't think she heard Sue
say goodbye, and wish us a nice weekend.
We got into her black MX5. It was already starting to get dark,
streetlights glowing peach fuzz in the indigo gloom.
We stopped at an out of town supermarket for fresh pasta, salad,
chocolate mousse, 10 Marlborough Lights, a couple of gossip magazines
and two bottles of Chardonnay.
As we headed towards Derby, I was glad she was driving. She weaved
expertly between the lanes of rush-hour traffic, talking non-stop about
the affect an incompetent colleague was having on an overdue project.
Outside was a blur of lights and shapes, grey hulking buildings,
scurrying fugures, hamburger wrappers. Inside the dashboard flickered
fairy lights. The turned down stereo was a tinny hum. It smelled of wet
leaves and Chanel.
Dianne decided to take off her coat. She unclipped her seatbelt. Too
hot, she said, pulling into the inside lane and starting to shrug off
her Burberry.
I remember the brake lights of the car in front.
Later on, people would ask me what had happened. It felt like a cliche,
saying that it all happened too quickly. In films, things like that
always happen in slow motion, don't they?
I remember not being able to breathe, as if someone had punched me in
the gut.
I remember the man with the mobile phone asking me if I was all
right.
At Dianne's funeral I was asked to say a few words, as one of her good
friends. It was Nick, her old friend from primary school, who did the
main eulogy. I must've cried, I suppose.
Nick and I shared a surreptitious cigarette around the back of the
crematorium, our smoke rising to join the smoke from the big
chimney.
Nick had floppy hair. His suit looked borrowed. He worked as a sub
editor on a magazine for homeless people. He'd been surprised to be
asked to give the eulogy, he said, to him Dianne was just an old mate
he emailed occasionally. He hadn't seen her in ages.
He asked what I did. I told her briefly about my job, training
volunteers for a local charity.
That's really interesting, Dianne never told me.
No, she never told me much about you, either, except that you were her
best friend. I was her second best, apparently. We caught each other's
thoughts and smiled a little guiltily - it was her funeral, after
all.
There was silence for a few moments.
I took one last drag and stamped the cigarette butt into the pale pink
gravel.
Fancy a beer?
Yeah, why not.
Overhead, the sun was starting to push through the mauve clouds.