Copyright © Tanya Piejus, 1999

Sally was my best friend. Born within a day of each other, we lived in the same middle-class town, were in the same class at school, both hated liver and polo-necked jumpers, loved cats, jazz and silent movies, had parents who put posters for the LibDems in their front windows at election time, shared the same sense of humour. Other friends had come and gone but Sally was a constant in my social life until we left school. We kept in touch by writing daft letters and often joked about what we'd be like when we were old. Neither of us doubted that we'd be friends for ever.

Sally found a job in London and, a year later, so did I. We spent excited weeks looking for a flat to rent together and found a quiet, neat but small abode in the centre of town. We quickly settled into a routine of work, cinema in the West End, bursts of energy at the local sports centre, shopping on the King's Road and occasional weekend trips home to Kent. Life seemed fine until just after Christmas when our deep-pile carpet of satisfied dreams was abruptly yanked out from under our feet and we were evicted by our con-artist of a landlady. Our belongings were literally thrown into the street and we were suddenly, and illegally, homeless.

The stress of being uprooted, fighting an expensive court case and stop-gap living in a freezing cold and badly-plumbed house in south London weighed me down. In May, just after our birthdays, we scraped together what little money we had left after legal fees, made use of Sally's Dad's accumulated air miles and flew to France to stay in her family's holiday house.

I was glad to leave behind our tiny, weird house in south London which was packed floor to ceiling with military books and had cupboards full of pointy helmets, ceremonial swords and moth-eaten uniforms. I was also glad to get away from the courtroom and the continual signing of affidavits, the sodden English weather, a boyfriend who was doing me more harm than good and the constant juggling involved in managing ten different books for a busy and profit-conscious publisher. More than anything, I wanted the chance to rebuild my damaged self-confidence which had been quietly cracking under these pressing responsibilities. My life wasn't mine anymore: everyone owned me except myself. Things were falling apart and I didn't know how to stick them together again.

Sally, on the other hand, seemed to have defiantly fought against the indignities we'd both suffered and the cold-hearted streak I had always known she possessed became more pronounced, not in obvious ways but in subtle criticisms and put-downs that made my already shrunken self-esteem wither even more. In France, we went on a bike ride and had to cycle up a steep hill to get back to the house. I was still recovering from the dregs of flu which refused to release its grip on lungs weakened by chicken pox caught at university. I wheezed like an asthmatic as I laboured up the hill and had to stop. I coughed until my ribs hurt. Instead of giving me sympathy or waiting for me to catch my breath, Sally rode on without a word and left me to return alone, still gasping for air.

On another bike ride, she was unsure of the way and got us lost. Turning back, I was in front and went the way I thought we had come. Looking behind me to check, Sally had disappeared without bothering to tell me I'd taken a wrong turn and was climbing another steep hill for nothing. Later, I identified an attractive species of grass we'd found and told her its Latin name from the reference book to be met with a complete lack of response. When I tried to initiate another conversation, I was accused of 'making stupid comments all the time'.

Within a few days, we had become like two entrenched armies that had once been allies and now were enemies, except that my emotional forces were by far the weaker and suffering from a shortage of much-needed reinforcement. I was under a constant bombardment of belittling snubs and barbed comment in this war of mental attrition. I waved a white flag by trying to explain how defeated I felt but, over a lunch of salad Nicoise she'd prepared in the full knowledge that I loathed anchovies, I mentioned that I'd been thinking of moving out of the dismal house we shared. 'When were you going to say?' she asked. Confused, I said 'Well, I'm saying now' and instead of asking me why, whether she would come with me, where I was thinking of moving to, she simply got up and left the room. Negotiations had finally broken down and the massed ranks of my sensitivities had had enough. There was nothing left to be done but make a tactical withdrawal.

I went to my room and packed my cases. At the front of the house, Sally was reclining at the top of the steps doing a jigsaw. She looked up as I came out, bags in hand, and said 'Are you leaving?' 'Yes', I replied, 'You won't talk to me' and with that she went back to mechanically shuffling her jigsaw pieces. I paused for a moment hoping that she'd stop me, but the lines of communication had gone dead. Without looking back, I walked away into the bright Provencal sunshine that had failed to warm our shell-shocked friendship.

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