The Friend

by Teresa Driscoll

It was probably what I liked about her most: this knack of leaving you nowhere to hide. She had a way of looking at you ever so directly and asking the questions that mattered, peeling back your layers and exposing the core that you normally managed to keep from people.

‘People tell you to try not to think about it. Your own instinct is not to think about it. But that doesn’t work,’ she said. ‘The trick is to learn to cope with thinking about it. To accept how truly awful it was. Am I making any sense?’

and then, to my horror, all was a blur. The next thing I felt was this strange ache to the side of my cheek and also my leg. Somehow I was now on the floor with Helen’s voice alongside me. ‘Right. Keep still, Sophie. You’re all right. You just fainted. I managed to hold you as you fell so I don’t think you hurt yourself but you need to keep still, honey. You understand? Take slow breaths . . .’

Be careful. Sometimes when we read back what we have written, we read what we intended to write, not what is on the page. And sometimes when we listen, we hear what we expected to hear and not what is being said . . .