Storytime with Rachel F Hundred

For a second, Samantha couldn’t breathe. 

Her chest tightened worryingly before she forced herself to take one shaky breath, then another.

The kind gaze of the beautiful doctor sat beside her helped anchor Samantha to her new reality.

Huntingdon’s disease.

No cure.

At sixty-two, she was older than the norm for diagnosis, but apparently not too old.

Samantha closed her eyes, shutting out her doctor’s sympathetic face.

“I’m truly sorry to give you this news, Samantha,” Doctor Bell murmured.  “Is there someone we can call for you?”

There was no-one.

Well.

Not no-one.

There were her girls – Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte.  They’d come if they were called.  Their friendships had drifted a little in the past decade as the three other women settled into their marriages, and in the case of the latter two women, children and family, but they were friends for life, platonic soulmates.

Then there was Smith.  Her sometimes lover and always friend.

Other friends who were part of her scene in New York.

What remained of her family was out in London; a cousin and her husband, their children and grandchildren who knew her as Auntie Sam.

But no-one she wanted to have with her while she processed the news.  She’d thought maybe her cancer was back despite the absence of lumps, but this…

“How long?”

The question tumbled from her lips and her eyes snapped open.  How long did she have left to live?  How long did she have left to live her life the way she wanted?

o-O-o

Samantha knew she should probably cancel the lunch she had scheduled with Carrie.  She’d cancelled the rest of her appointments for the day.  But, Carrie was different.  She was more than a client, she was a friend.  Probably Samantha’s best friend.  They’d known each other for decades, known each other before Miranda had come along, and before Charlotte had tripped (literally) into their lives.

She’d tell Carrie over lunch, Samantha determined.  She needed to tell someone the news which had shaken her entire existence.  They’d work out the next step together.

Samantha smiled as she caught sight of Carrie at their usual table in Zenzo’s.  They exchanged air kisses as a greeting before Samantha slid into their booth, placing her large work handbag onto the seat.  The hostess poured Samantha’s water, noted Samantha’s dismissal of ordering any other drink, and left them alone.

Samantha offered Carrie a smile as she took in her friend’s unique style muted with shades of blue in a simile of a suit, the matching small box hat set off to the side of Carrie’s surprisingly stern hairdo –  a tight bun with her hair pulled taut away from her face.  “Well, don’t you look business fabulous.”

Carrie offered a tremulous smile.  “This is a business lunch.”

Samantha kept her smile with difficulty, thinking of the personal news she’d decided to share.  “Yes, it is, but…”

“I’m going to have to let you go,” Carrie interrupted in a babble of nervous energy.

Samantha froze, her water glass partially to her mouth.  She blinked.  “Excuse me?”

“Professionally, I need to let you go, professionally,” Carrie stated bluntly, her face flushed and her gaze darting about anywhere but Samantha.

Samantha simply stared at her.

“Look,” Carrie’s hands flapped over the table.  “Big hired this consultant for me as a present during the pandemic and she took a look at everything, and she just thinks that I can do more for myself; that I don’t need a publicist now and that I could be saving hundreds of wasted dollars and earning money if I branched out into podcasts and vlogs to a new generation, become relevant to them not just my older readers, and…”

Samantha set her water glass down, a little stung at the implication her services were a waste of money.  She’d never charged her full fee to Carrie because of their friendship, and for many years Carrie’s finances had always lived on the edge of either ‘shoes’ or ‘poverty’ depending on how her writing was going.  She had always though ensured Carrie’s name and brand were spotless in their reputation and kept relevant to her market. 

“…and I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the years, but I think this is the right step for me now and…”

“Carrie,” Samantha broke in sharply before Carrie babbled on any further.  She took a breath as Carrie stopped talking abruptly, subsiding into her side of the booth and playing with the edges of the linen napkin.

“Are you ready to order, ladies?”

They both looked up at the young waiter, poised with his electronic notebook.  He was handsome; dark wavy hair, olive complexion, white cocky smile.  His forearms were tanned and muscled.  He was the type of guy Samantha usually had for breakfast.  Lunch.  Dinner.  Midnight snack.  She wasn’t picky.

Samantha flashed him a smile.  “Could you give us a few minutes?”

The waiter suddenly clued into the tense atmosphere, offered a tentative smile and with a muttered excuse backed away.

Carrie sighed, dropping her head into her hands and almost dislodging the hat.  “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

“How long did you practice your speech in the mirror?” asked Samantha dryly.

“Too long,” Carrie proclaimed and picked up the almost drained cocktail she’d been drinking when Samantha had arrived.

Samantha considered her friend for a long moment.  Carrie looked apologetic, but determined; she was clearly set on her path and given how well Samantha knew Carrie, she knew she wasn’t going to change her mind.  A sharp pain lanced through her head, a warning of an impending headache, and she ignored it.

“Carrie,” Samantha began briskly, “you made your name as a print lifestyle journalist, publishing in premier magazines, reprint on their digital content.  You write about love, relationships and sex, drawing on your own experience and the lives of the people you know.  Your market is the women who have followed you from day one, who have matured with you into marriage and families, even if they’ve ultimately gotten divorced.  They want the old-fashioned love story you represent.”

Carrie’s jaw set in a stubborn angle.  “What if I want to be more than that?  What if I can be more than that?  My perspective is relevant to young people too!”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” Samantha pointed out calmly.  “I’m just noting where you are now.  If you want to expand your market, we can look at that.” 

Broadening Carrie’s appeal to a sexually aware and divergent generation wasn’t impossible – love was love, sex was sex after all – but it would be difficult.  There were all kinds of social nuances and a greater awareness of diversity which hadn’t been so relevant when Carrie had been young and single, and Carrie was very much a product, a very hetero white privileged product, of her own generation.

“We can’t,” Carrie said firmly.  “Your old ways of publicising my brand aren’t working, Samantha, they just aren’t, especially with a younger audience and I need to try something new.”

Samantha cocked her head to the side.  “We haven’t tried the ways that would appeal to a newer generation, Carrie, because that hasn’t been a direction you’ve wanted to go in until now.”

“But shouldn’t we have tried before now?” Carrie questioned passionately.  “Why haven’t you encouraged me to try Twitter or TikTok or to create my own vlog?  Shouldn’t you have pushed me out of my box years ago?”

Samantha could practically hear the words of the consultant coming out of her friend’s mouth.  She wondered who it was and why they’d been so adamantly against Carrie continuing her professional relationship with a publicist. 

“You hate Twitter,” Samantha replied evenly.  “You wouldn’t let me hire a social media assistant for you and you kept forgetting to tweet or post a photo or story to IG even when I reminded you.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” Carrie said, “and I think my taking the lead on this personally is the way I should go rather than through a third party who doesn’t understand how I can make my mark and be relevant with a younger generation.”

Samantha’s eyebrows flew up at that.  She had three teen clients, not to mention a dozen more in their twenties, and thirties on her books, and yet she was the one who didn’t understand what Carrie needed to do to become relevant to a younger generation?  She felt the sting of a hit on her professional pride and the stronger hurt that her friend clearly believed what she was saying despite knowing Samantha.

She wasn’t going to win the argument, Samantha realised.  Whoever had Carrie’s ear had done a very good demolition job on Samantha’s professional reputation with Carrie, despite the years she’d worked for her.  She cleared her throat.

“I can see nothing I say will change your mind,” Samantha commented, feeling suddenly very tired. 

There was no way she could confide in Carrie about her diagnosis after being fired by her, and truthfully, all she wanted to do was go home, lick her metaphorical wounds and try to make sense of what was definitely a shitshow of a day.

“No,” Carrie agreed, “I’m sorry, but I really need to do this next step without you holding me back.”

There was a beat of silence between them as they both registered the sharpness of that final statement.

“I didn’t mean…” Carrie began.

Samantha held up her hand.  “You’ve been very clear,” she said, calmly and gave a decisive nod.  It wasn’t the first time she’d lost a client, nor would it be the last.  “I’ll send you a final invoice on receipt of your written notice of severance on our contract.”

Carrie’s eyes widened as though she’d forgotten they had a legal agreement.  “Right.  Of course.”

The waiter clumsily cleared his throat beside their table.  “Are you ladies ready to order now?”

Samantha placed her napkin on the table and reached for her bag, sliding out of the booth with graceful ease.  “Oh, I think we’re done.”

Carrie’s eyes widened in alarm.  “Samantha…”

Samantha walked away, her head held high.

o-O-o

One bubble bath and an orgasm later, Samantha checked her voice mail to find five messages waiting for her.  She gave a huffy sigh and began to lotion her smooth legs in a steady familiar pattern that soothed her.

“Samantha, it’s me,” Carrie’s voice sounded from the speaker.  “Look, I know lunch wasn’t what you expected to hear and I’m sorry, but you know I love you, right?  Call me.”

“You love me,” Samantha muttered, “you just don’t have any respect for me professionally.”  She shook her head.  “Delete message.”

“Message deleted,” her phone said mechanically.  “Next message.”

“Hi Samantha, it’s me, Charlotte,” Charlotte’s fake brightness gave away the likely topic she was calling about.  “Carrie called me…”

And there it was.

“…and explained what happened.  I know you must have been hurt when she let you go, I know I would have been,” Charlotte continued, “but you know she loves you as a friend.  I love you as a friend.  We’re here for you.”  A beat of silence.  “I have PTA later, but call me when you’re ready to talk.  I’m here for you, for you both.”

Classic Charlotte, Samantha mused.  She was a sweetheart who just wanted the world to be a bright shiny ball of love and happiness.  Charlotte hated when there was dissent between them all…

Well, she’d just have to hate it for longer because Samantha wasn’t ready to just forgive Carrie for that pile of bullshit she’d spouted at lunch and she wasn’t ready to hear someone defend Carrie for firing her. 

“Delete message,” Samantha ordered.

She wasn’t surprised when Miranda’s voice sounded next.

“Carrie called,” Miranda began bluntly, her words slurring a little.  “Call me if you need to talk about it.”

That was Miranda.  No false words of sympathy just a sharp blunt offer of an ear.

Samantha frowned.  Had Miranda been drinking?  She shook the thought away as she smoothed lotion into her arm.  She could call Miranda.

Miranda was usually supremely sensible and practical.  She was also usually completely mired in her life away from them.  Between Steve, Steve’s late mother, Brady, their home outside of Manhattan, and Miranda’s job…Samantha rarely saw or spoke with Miranda outside of the girls’ brunch they all still tried to make every week. 

Although she was tempted to phone Miranda, Samantha was unwilling to add her own woes to Miranda’s burdens.

And besides, while she suspected Miranda wouldn’t defend Carrie per se, she’d agree with Carrie’s right to fire Samantha professionally.  Hell, even Samantha could concede Carrie had the right to sever their professional relationship…she just wished…she just wished Carrie had been kinder in the how and why of it all.

Samantha sat down abruptly on her bed and looked up at the ceiling.

She’d forgive Carrie.  She always did.  Just as Carrie always forgave Samantha when she wasn’t kind.  They’d been friends for too long to let occasional spats and disagreements split them up.  But she wasn’t ready to forgive Carrie right then.

“Next message,” Samantha ordered briskly, resuming her lotioning.

“Ms Jones, this is Helen Bayley from First Health and Wellbeing Insurance,” the cultured voice said politely.  “We’ve received the report from your doctor and wish to speak to you about your options.”

The message ended with a number and a request for a call-back.

Samantha breathed in deeply.  She was going to have to face it sometime, she thought grimly.  She set the lotion aside and rubbed her hands with the last of it.  “Save message.”

“Next message,” the machine continued.

“Hey, Samantha, we’ve had a delay in our schedule because Ryan broke his toe, so I’m back in town, want to do dinner and maybe me?” Smith’s warm voice drifted from the machine.

Smith.  Smith who had stayed with her through her cancer.  They still loved each other despite the end of their personal relationship.  Samantha picked up the phone and called him back.   

o-O-o

“Sorry,” Samantha blew her nose on the tissue and looked up at Smith sheepishly.  “I really didn’t come over to blab all my troubles and cry on your shoulder.”

“Well, I did ask how you were,” Smith said easily, sitting down next to her and handing her the mug of coffee he’d made, keeping another for himself.

Samantha huffed out a laugh.  He’d barely gotten the words out before she’d dissolved into a not so attractive puddle of snot.

Smith, on the other hand…he still looked gorgeous.

Blond tousled hair; piercing blue-green eyes.  The good looks of the successful movie star he was and the physique to match.  But it wasn’t his physicality which made Smith beautiful.  He was kind and generous and sweet.  Not that he didn’t have faults, he had them, but he was the best man she knew and the one she’d tried the hardest with to make it work.  It hadn’t been his fault Samantha had felt stifled in what many considered to be a perfect relationship.

Samantha nudged his shoulder, leaning into him.  “Thank you.”

Smith nudged her back.  “What are you going to do?”

“About what?” asked Samantha dryly.  “Carrie or the disease which condemns me to a fate worse than death?”

“Hey,” chided Smith gently.

Samantha didn’t apologise because her words had been honest and heartfelt.  She’d rather a swift death than a decline of her physical and mental health to a state where she’d need care and help to even feed herself.

She swallowed against another ball of fear stealing her breath.

“Let’s go with the easy one first,” Smith said.  His gaze was serious as he snagged hers.  “Is there really no cure?”

“No cure,” Samantha repeated.  “I’m older than most who are diagnosed, my symptoms aren’t severe at this stage, but…the outlook is…not good.”

“What do you need?” Smith asked.  “If you need money or help, you know I have…”

Samantha clasped his hand with hers and shook her head.  “That’s very kind, but I have my own money.”

Smith nodded.  “I know, I just…I want to help.”

“You have, you are,” Samantha said.  “Your damp shoulder can attest to that.”

They smiled at each other.

Smith nudged her again.  “So, about the girls…”

Samantha winced and looked away briefly before her gaze returned to his knowing eyes.  “They don’t know about…about the Huntingdon’s.  I haven’t told them yet.  I was going to tell Carrie, but then…”

“She fired you,” Smith completed.

“She fired me,” Samantha repeated.   She shook her head.  “She really fucking fired me.”  She took a sip of the coffee and smiled appreciatively at Smith as she discovered the burn of a whiskey in the bitter brew.

Smith frowned.  “I don’t understand why she fired you.  You’re a great publicist.”

“Whoever this consultant she’s listening to is, they clearly don’t want me as Carrie’s publicist,” Samantha said.  She suspected someone with a grudge, God knew she’d fucked enough people over or just screwed them.  She knew she’d made enemies, rivals, scorned lovers.

“Could you fight it?” asked Smith.

“If I knew who it was, sure,” Samantha said.  She frowned and took another sip of her whiskey-laced coffee.  “Now ask me if I want to fight it.”

Smith’s eyebrows rose. 

“In amongst the aspersions on my professional abilities,” Samantha lifted a hand briefly from her mug, “there was a kernel of truth.”  She bit her lip and shook her head.  “I haven’t pushed Carrie out of her box, and I probably should have done it years ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”  Smith asked, curiosity written all over his face.  “You’ve pushed me to branch out, push myself.”  He nudged her shoulder.  “I wouldn’t have gotten the award nominations last year if you hadn’t talked me into that Indie film with Emily and John.”

Samantha smiled, remembering how proud she’d been when she’d heard he’d been nominated.  He hadn’t won, but just securing the nominations had done a lot in establishing his acting credentials and increasing his potential options for work.

“Carrie and I…we’ve always been friends first,” Samantha admitted.  “She’s been happy since she and John married, comfortable and…her commentary is based on a privilege the younger generation is railing loudly against.  Making herself relevant to them would mean her confronting some truths about her own reality…about our shared reality.”  She gave a huff of a chuckle.  “Maybe I didn’t push her because I wasn’t ready to confront those truths myself.”

Or deal with Carrie facing them.

“You’re not a bigot,” Smith said confidently.

“No,” Samantha agreed, “I’ve always been a live and let live kind of gal, but I am a rich white woman living in New York.  I’m not ashamed of who I am, but I’ve lived a life of privilege, had opportunities denied to others and I can’t say I’ve always acted appropriately and without prejudice.”

“Who can?” murmured Smith.

“You know Carrie once questioned whether bisexuality existed,” Samantha sighed.  “How’s she going to cope with the rest of the LGBTQ alphabet?  And if she isn’t attuned to saying the right thing in the right way…”

“She’ll be cancelled,” Smith quipped.

“Don’t even joke about it,” Samantha sighed.  She sipped her coffee.  “Fuck it, she was probably right to fire me.  She needs someone to help her navigate this world now and that isn’t me.  God knows I usually just say whatever’s in my head.”

“You usually say the thing everyone wishes they said,” Smith argued.  “That’s not a bad thing.”

“Just not always the right thing,” Samantha shot back.

Smith grimaced but didn’t argue.  He knew her well enough to know she was often not politically correct or emotionally sensitive to others.  She’d called herself harsh once; she still believed that.  Blunt and brutal honesty.  He loved her anyway.

“I don’t blame her for firing me,” Samantha began again, “I just wish she’d…she could have been kinder.  There were things said and she…”

“She hurt you,” Smith concluded.

“She hurt me,” Samantha agreed. 

“Shitty day to hurt you,” Smith said.

“She didn’t know,” Samantha replied defensively.  “I didn’t tell her about the tests or about the issues I’ve been having.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Smith asked.

That was the question, wasn’t it?

Samantha rubbed the side of her head.  “I don’t know.  I just…everything feels like too much right now.”

“Then take a break,” Smith suggested.  “I’m heading back to London tomorrow.  Come with me, take a vacation, get your head on straight.”

“I can’t do that!” Samantha protested.

“Why not?” asked Smith, pointedly.  “If you stay you know Carrie will be leaving messages, so will Charlotte and Miranda.  When you don’t reply, they’ll come over.  If you’re not ready to deal with them…” he shrugged.  “I just think getting out of town for a while makes sense.”

It did make sense.

She loved her girls, always would, but dealing with the fallout of her latest fallout with Carrie – she just didn’t feel she had the bandwidth to do it – not with her diagnosis so fresh in her head.  She needed to work out a plan for the rest of her life and…and normally she’d do that with the girls but she couldn’t, not with how things were with her and Carrie.

And getting away sounded…sounded good.

She could visit her cousin and tell her the news personally – recommend Susannah and her family got tested just in case – and that was definitely something which would be better done face to face.

“Fuck it,” Samantha said, “London, it is.” She raised her mug and Smith tapped his lightly against it.

o-O-o

Samantha grimaced at the rain splattering against the windowpanes in Susannah’s stylish London townhouse.

A week earlier, Susannah had taken the news of Samantha’s illness with a raised eyebrow and a dry “You don’t remember Uncle Albie, do you?” which had revealed that their late Uncle had been diagnosed with Huntingdon’s at the age of forty and he’d died at fifty-five leaving a widow and no children.

Samantha had never known because her mother had never gotten along with her family and the whole relationship with Susannah’s mother had been fraught.  Samantha had only known her mother had stopped speaking to Auntie Violet when Samantha had been a young teen.  Susannah and Samantha had stayed in touch as pen-pals, something which had continued when Susannah’s step-father had been posted to England by his company and Susannah had never returned to the States.

Samantha set her phone down on the table and glared at it.

Susannah slid into the seat opposite, sliding a tea-tray onto the polished wood.  “Tea?”

“If by tea, you mean coffee, sure,” Samantha replied tartly.

“You hate my coffee,” Susannah retorted briskly.  She poured Samantha a cup of tea and pushed it across the table along with a plate of cookies.

Samantha huffed, picked up a cookie and bit into it.  She savoured the taste of chocolate for a long moment.

“More messages?” asked Susannah.

Samantha took a large bite of her cookie.

Susannah sat back and regarded Samantha over the rim of her teacup.  “You’ll have to talk with them eventually.”

“Eventually,” Samantha conceded unhappily.  She picked up her tea and sipped it, her face contorting with the taste.  She set it down and liberally added sugar and lemon. 

Susannah arched one elegant grey eyebrow.  There was a grey streaks in the auburn brown hair that looked wonderfully edgy on her cousin.  “I take it the messages aren’t what you want to hear.”

Samantha shook her head.  “They’re exactly what I expected to hear; they’re pissed off with me.”

Miranda had travelled from concerned to pissed off to concerned to very pissed off within the space of four days.  Her last message had been to berate Samantha for worrying them all, to get over herself and not to call until she did.

Charlotte had travelled from Carrie’s defender to concerned to Carrie’s Defender with a capital D to concerned to Disappointed in Samantha, also with a capital D.

Carrie herself had been alternating between defensive justifications, pleas for Samantha to simply call her and more defensive justifications.  Her last message though…to imply Samantha had stuck by Carrie through everything just for money?  It wasn’t as though Samantha had ever made money being Carrie’s publicist.

“From their point of view, Carrie fired you and you disappeared on them,” Susannah said bluntly.  “You can’t blame them for comments they make about your actions when they are without the full set of facts.”

Samantha sighed.  “I know, I just…they could just be nicer about it.  I did get fired.”

“All they see is you rejecting them in the wake of a decision Carrie made which was not in your favour,” Susannah said with the same ruthless honesty that Samantha had always used herself.  “They don’t understand your side of it has nothing to do with Carrie’s decision and has everything to do with you trying to make the best decisions for your own life in the wake of your other bad news which they don’t even know about it.”

“I know,” Samantha said tersely.

“And they won’t understand it until you tell them,” Susannah continued.

“I know that too!” Samantha snapped.  She blew out a breath and closed her eyes, regaining her equilibrium. She opened her eyes and sipped her tea. 

“I’d apologise for pushing, but…” Susannah sighed.  “Those girls have been more of a family to you than I have, than any of us in the family have.”  She waved at Samantha.  “And now when you really need that friendship and love in your life, you’re here.”

Samantha squirmed in her seat.  “It was…unfortunate timing.”  She tapped her fingers along the delicate cup, considering her answer.  “You remember how Great Aunt Betty would tell us to treasure our friendships, because men come and go, but…”

“The women in your life will stay,” Susannah nodded.  “I remember.”

“I believe that,” Samantha said, “I truly do.”

“But?” prompted Savannah.

“The thing that Betty never said was that even those friendships wax and wane,” Samantha said softly.  “Sometimes they’re as difficult as any relationship with a man, if not more so because it hurts more to let them go.”

“Do you want to let them go?” asked Susannah, with a tilt of her head.

Samantha sighed heavily.  “If I took their messages at face value, it’s like they don’t know me at all.  Carrie accused me of using her as an ATM.”

“Carrie who you practically bankrolled through her twenties?  That Carrie?” Susannah’s outrage doused Samantha’s.

“She’s never been good with money,” Samantha commented dryly.  “I’ve undercharged her for years because of our friendship and for her to say that…” she shrugged.  “If that’s really what she thought of our friendship…were we even friends?”

Susannah reached across the table and offered her hand.  Samantha took it, grateful for the support.

“What are you going to do?” Susannah asked.

Samantha grimaced.  “They’re my girls, always will be.  But I came here to make some decisions about my life, about what’s left of my life.  That has to be the most important thing to me right now, not this drama over being fired.”  She took a deep breath.  “I love them, but I love me more.”

o-O-o

Smith always fucked like a champion.

Samantha was left breathless in the aftermath.  He slid out of the bed and padded into the small sitting room to retrieve the champagne she’d brought.

He brought it back with paper cups.

“How long have you been living here?” Samantha asked teasingly.

Smith dropped another kiss on her lips.  “Nobody’s brought me champagne before.”

“Not even Flick?”

Felicity Burgh was the hot ticket English actress playing leading lady opposite Smith’s rugged leading man.  Flick was young, hot and if Samantha was ten years younger, she’d suggest a threesome.

Screw it.

She might just suggest it anyway.

“Flick prefers the pub and warm beer,” Smith wrinkled his nose adorably.

Samantha hummed.

“But maybe if she ever hears that she doesn’t have a degenerative disease which will shorten her life, she’ll bring me champagne too,” Smith completed, handing her the paper cup.

Samantha raised it in a silent toast and tossed it back. 

Smith refilled it.  “Are you going to sue?”

“I intend to write a very stern letter to Doctor Bell and the lab which mixed up the results in the first place,” Samantha said dryly. 

Smith set the bottle down and kissed her.  “Just as well Susannah convinced you to go to the consultant here in London to discuss your options.”

Samantha nodded.  “I should have gone months ago.”

Smith propped his head on his hand and looked at her.  “Regretting your decisions?”

She considered the question seriously.  “No,” she said slowly, “I’m not.”

Smith raised an eyebrow.  “You left the States, moved your business to England.”

“I’ve gone global,” Samantha countered, “I still have a team in New York.  Besides, representing Tom was just too good an opportunity and he’s based here.”

“Your girls aren’t,” Smith pointed out.

Samantha huffed and turned away, ostensibly to get rid of the paper cup but more to cover her distress.

“I thought for sure you’d go back when the news about John broke,” Smith murmured.

Samantha grimaced.  “I sent flowers and I still thought I was sick then.  I couldn’t just turn up at his funeral and say, ‘surprise! And by the way we should start planning my funeral too!’”

Only they didn’t have to plan anything.  Apparently the issues which had sparked her seeing a doctor in the first place were just down to a vitamin deficiency easily fixed.

“And now?” asked Smith.

“And now, I don’t know,” Samantha admitted.  “She texted me a thank you for the flowers.  Miranda and Charlotte texted too.  I just…” she sighed heavily.  “It’s all so awkward.”

She’d long since gotten over the sharp remarks the girls had made when she’d left, the misunderstandings borne of the way she’d left.  She missed them.  But the longer she went without seeing them, speaking with them directly, the harder it seemed to bridge the distance between them – and that had nothing to do with geography.

Smith reached over and clasped her hand, entangling their fingers.  “You know when we were together, I was so jealous of their relationship with you.  After, I wondered sometimes whether you’d still have been with me if you hadn’t had them to go home to in New York.”

Samantha bit her lip.  “Us, me breaking up with you was all me, nothing to do with you or them.”  She squeezed his fingers.  “I couldn’t be what you needed, what you need.  Still can’t.”  She smiled widely.  “But I can be what you want right now.”

Smith kissed her fingers, then her wrist, then her arm and then…Samantha squirmed, delighted at the beginning of round two.

o-O-o

‘Of course. I love that your vagina is getting airtime.’

Samantha pressed send.  She was surprised Carrie had texted her about her podcast story but she was pleased.

She picked up her cocktail from the bar and raised it at the phone.

Soon, Samantha promised herself.  She’d call Carrie and explain.  Call the girls and tell them about the mix-up with the diagnosis.  The very bad timing of Carrie letting her go on the same day. 

She sipped her cocktail, regarding the cosy atmosphere in the wine bar.  A silver-haired fox gave her an admiring glance across the room and she lowered her eyes.

She wasn’t going to return to New York.  The thought of her life declining, ending…it had brought it home to her just how little time she had left and how she wanted to spend it. 

She loved England, loved her work, loved the life she was making, and the time she was spending with Susannah and her family.  For the first time she could remember, Samantha didn’t want to go back, despite how much she missed her friendship with the girls.

Her phone beeped; she picked it up to look at it, wondering if Carrie had texted something else.

It wasn’t Carrie.  It was a picture of Smith and Flick in bed with a bottle of beer and an invitation to join them. 

Samantha smiled. 

She drained her cocktail.  She surreptitiously checked her lipstick was still good with a brief glance in the mirrored backsplash of the bar and smoothed down the sides of her dress as she stood, sliding her clutch bag off the bar. 

She headed out, her head held high, and went to enjoy her threesome.

fin.