That was true.
What she never mentioned was why I had been beneath the bed in the first place, or what I had heard while I was there.
I stopped trying to make her understand my side of the story.
She had understood enough to plan against me.
Understanding had never been the problem.
Saoirse and I still speak most weeks.
We are not exactly friends, though that word has gradually become less inadequate.
We share ordinary things now. Work frustrations. Family news. Books we think the other might like. Sometimes we meet for coffee without discussing the estate or the wedding.
Once, while we were walking through a crowded shopping street, she stopped beside a shop window and said, “Do you ever think about that night?”
“Every week.”
“I used to imagine what would happen if you believed me at the engagement party.”
“What did you imagine?”
She considered the question.
