The Girlfriend Book

By Gwen K. Harvey

Three friends, three decades, one shared journey. In 1995, Nicole, Dianne, and Kate gather for their annual girls' bike ride. Nicole is managing through a past with secrets and stunted opportunities. Dianne is grappling with seeking the truth while protecting people from it. And Kate is navigating a fast-moving career alongside the love of a muc

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwen K. Harvey
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738283910

Book preview

Preface

FROM EARLY DAYS as a child, the weight of life was eased when I could share a problem and talk it through. Initially the listener was my mother and I am grateful for her non-judgmental ear. As teenage years arrived, so too did the Girlfriend. And so began the sharing of a parallel life with women.

It has been fascinating to witness the power of conversation as a tool to create clarity. When thoughts are pulled out and turned into spoken words, one is on their way to finding solutions that fit. When this happens in a safe space with active listening and helpful words from friends, the load is lighter, the decisions are better and the mind finds peace.

1995

Nicole

THAT WAS TOO long. It’s easy to lose track.

Driving towards home, I can see the children running along the sidewalk, heading home from school. My two will be walking through the back door at any moment, calling out my name. Why did I stay so long this time? I should be there when they slam the door and run into the kitchen.

I remember doing the same. Coming home with my two brothers, scootering along the sidewalk, throwing down knapsacks inside the back door and barreling into the kitchen for milk and cookies; our stories tumbling out onto the kitchen counter where my mother was beginning to prepare dinner.

Always there was that time of contact with guiding words from Mom. A test was a stepping stone, not the ultimate. Friends were significant but family was the most important thing. Then Mom would package the boys off to their desks to make sure their homework was done with one hundred percent effort. As the girl, I was detained to help set the table and chop vegetables. Mom would frequently remind me that home economics was important for a young woman. Eventually I would arrive at my little desk, crammed into the corner of my mother’s sewing room, where I would puzzle over my homework.

In time, the boys headed off to the university in Toronto, leaving our small town. New friendships were formed in a city with fashionable shops, cutting-edge restaurants and fascinating people from all over the world. They thrived in their studies and grew up with peers who challenged their minds. When my brothers came home for visits, they seemed taller as they strode into our home. Such confidence. I was in awe of the young men they had become.

Meanwhile, complying with my parents’ wishes that I stay local, and be there to help them when needed, I applied to Port Colebrook’s local community college in administrative studies. I followed my parents’ sensible advice. They told me that secretarial work was a safe, dependable job and it would allow me to easily pick-up part-time work between babies or full-time work after my children were grown up. Within two years of leaving high school, I was earning a pay cheque and wondering what to do with it. Most of my girlfriends had left for university and those that had stayed were already spending more time with boyfriends than girlfriends.

I had decided to take a sabbatical from boys. I did not want to repeat that flu-like ache that I experienced when Alex returned after his first term in university. He avoided me for the first few days and then arrived at my front door and unceremoniously broke up with me. Why did I imagine that just because we both loved sailing, cycling, cuddling up together and magically finishing each other’s sentences, that someone else wouldn’t come along that could do all of that too? And if that person could also join him in an exciting city life while he was at school, why would he miss out on that? I had always dreamed that he might come home after finishing university, see me sitting across the room at the Whistle House Café and I would then have a chance to tilt my head, smile and say something engaging. But no such luck. He continued to move on in life, and he settled far away in a city out west.

It was around that time that I took up long early morning runs. It was a way to take control of one part of my life. As others slept or read their morning paper, I haunted the forest and waterside trails. In time I grew to love my long slim runner’s body and became a keen reader about nutrition and health. This was something I could create on my own, and those early mornings, running and thinking, were all mine.

I had been taught that life works out as it is meant to be. I had no reason to doubt that. My mother and father had always said that their family was lucky to have a great town to grow up in, with solid, kind people living all around them. My Dad, having watched his father lose everything when the family business had gone under during a recession, found security in the trades. As an electrician, there was always work and the pay was steady. While he did encourage the boys to break out and find a well-paying future, he strongly suggested that I marry a professional. He greatly admired doctors, accountants and lawyers. He said that a man who was a professional would be sure to bring financial security to both me and the family I would have one day.

In time, I met a young dentist, who was new to Port Colebrook and had come from a nearby farming community. I made a point of courting him until he noticed me, and then he spent a good six months running after me. Marriage followed and now two little kids are turning into two bigger kids and they will be racing in through the kitchen door at any moment.

I pull into the driveway and walk calmly into the house, not wanting to appear rushed to a neighbour. Stopping at the front hall mirror, I stare at the tall woman who is looking back at me. I hardly recognize her these days. At thirty-five, gone is my long auburn hair from my twenties, traded in for a blunt shoulder length cut. Hazel eyes blink at me, perfect white teeth creep out from pink lips and I reach out and touch the glass. You are late today, I whisper. Why are you getting so sloppy?

I head to the kitchen and open the fridge. I reach into the cold, pull out a beer and pop the cap off with the bottle opener nailed to the side of the kitchen cupboard. Pressing the sharp points of the cap into the palm of one hand, I raise the beer to my lips with the other. I take one civilized gulp, pause and then pour the rest of the beer down the kitchen sink. Placing the bottle beside the fridge, I pitch the cap into the garbage and sit down at the kitchen table overlooking the garden.

A minute later Jimmy and Tessa hurtle through the back door, drop their knapsacks and charge into the kitchen. I wave Jimmy to the cupboard and he plunges into the large tin, filled with homemade oatmeal cookies. Leave some for your sister, I call out laughing, always amazed at my son’s healthy metabolism and his total fixation on filling up his stomach as he flies in after school. I rise and pour them both a tall glass of milk, feeling like I am walking in my mother’s footsteps.

After the usual banter, I make sure both of my children are settled at their desks and embroiled in their homework. Then I return to the kitchen alone to prepare for dinner. Unlike my mother’s roadmap for her children, I will make sure both of my children have an equal shot at university and a life beyond here.

The phone rings and I answer.

You made it home in time? he asks.

Yes, I reply. But barely. I can’t stay that long next time.

Understood. See you next week?

I pause, Okay, see you then. I lower the phone, placing it softly on the receiver.

Having the freedom to leave my job in the early afternoon each day, had been a life saver. Originally it was to give me time between running the behind-the-scenes administration of Michael’s busy dental practice, and picking up all the pieces at home. Once the children descended from school, there was always homework, dinner, laundry, preparing lunches for the next day and being perky and upbeat when Michael arrived home and needed to unload. But during the mid-afternoon, that was my time. It was peaceful being alone and it had become a family joke that I had an interesting alternative to a cup of tea. I would open one beer during that time. That beer’s cool passage down my throat calmed me and I would silently float away, leaving this small town on Georgian Bay. Family and friends all knew that when it was beer time, I wouldn’t be answering the phone. Everyone had been trained to leave me alone and not interrupt my afternoon.

But for the last couple of months, the beer had been swirling down the sink on Tuesdays. Decompressing had found a new form of self-expression.

Dianne

FILING THROUGH THE wide school hallways, plastered with art projects depicting a frantic clash between nature and civilization, I lead a long trail of hyper nine year old’s. I’m aware I’m short and only hover over my class by a foot. Thankfully those twelve inches mean they physically do tip their heads back and look up to me. But I do know that stature is more than just height. Having always been the short blonde, I have worked hard to speak out, create a presence and to be very good at what I do. However, I continue to be amazed at the credit given to a tall male when they enter a room, even before they have spoken. I would have to do handstands to get that type of attention.

My grade three class is bursting with enthusiasm, delighted to be heading away from paper, pens and desks and towards the school auditorium. As we enter the gym, they scamper into the neatly lined rows of unstacked chairs, and continue to bounce even while seated. Shortly the stage will be full of song and dance, as the eighth graders share their Welcome Back from Summer show. For the past couple of years this spirited extravaganza has turned into a sentimental time of reflection, as I watch the fourteen-year old’s, who were once my nine-year old’s, move about the stage. Some predictably take on leadership roles, and others uncharacteristically move into the spotlight. Watching them interact with each other, and knowing their individual backstories, makes the clapping and standing ovations a chance for me and others to celebrate their success both on and beyond the stage.

My love of school started day one, when I bolted into my kindergarten class and left my bewildered Mother at the door, where other children were dewy-eyed and clinging to their mothers. Books were a passion from an early age. Colliding with C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe when our teacher read the book out loud to us in grade three, pulled me into Narnia, never to return to regular life again. If the magic of Narnia existed, then other books too must hold adventures, experiences and secrets to explore. And there were so many books out there. I dove into them one after another.

And then one year when I was thirteen, Uncle Darren visited our lively family home. Unlike the rest of my mother’s family, this brother had moved away from Port Colebrook, lived in multiple big cities and traveled extensively. With a generous, broad smile, he always seemed to glow as he described his adventures. He was so articulate and had vocabulary that cast a spell on me. I hung on every word and animated analogy. After sharing stories of a recent trip, he leaned in to me and confided, Dianne, the world awaits you. And the secret about who you will become lies in the books you will read and the people you will meet.

Well, I remember thinking, I’m nailing the part about reading books, but I guess maybe I need to spend more time talking with people. And as if fairy dust had been sprinkled on me overnight, I woke up the next day and became one of the most inquisitive and extraverted girls in my class, always seeking out others to talk to and learn from. This trait continued to expand as I grew up.

And then I met Tom in grade eleven. He was the captain of the football team. His athletic build, summery smile and good nature made him a hit with everyone. However, what I loved most about Tom was that he was an enlightened male. While he loved his sports (all of them, and there were many), he also enjoyed school and did well. He would wrap me up in his arms on the living room sofa, as we either read books aloud together, or quietly read on our own and then stopped to share an observation that had suddenly bounced off the page.

However, while I had caught Tom’s attention, he spent the next couple of years of high school trying to keep mine. It wasn’t that I was interested in dating anyone else, but I just found people so interesting. I continued to engage in long and varied conversations with teachers, store keepers, gas station attendants, and of course, many of my fellow students. It often meant I lost track of time and was late for a date, or sometimes completely forgot there was one. My fascination with other people and exploring thoughts about the world unfolding around me was often manic, and it kept displacing time for Tom and me, as a couple.

When we split up after high school finished, it was meant to be mutual, but it wasn’t. He initiated it. I realized too late that my continuously growing assortment of friends, was to the detriment of those I cared for most. And this was playing out with girlfriends too. I began to witness that among my many girlfriends, some were becoming closer to each other, and I wasn’t a part of their inner circle. I finally understood that time in the friendship mattered, and that applied to boyfriends too.

While dating other men in university, I was always bewildered when they seemed insecure, defensive or worst of all, narrow focused. I wondered why there weren’t more men out there like Tom, and how sad it would be if there really weren’t any more like him.

In university, I continued to grow my love of learning through both studies and the people I met, but I made a point of figuring out who I really wanted to be closest to and spent more time and effort with them.

Kate was one such person. While Kate took Commerce and was heading towards business, and I was now eyeing a Masters of Education after my undergraduate degree, we met when we lived side by side in a rather boisterous first-year dormitory. We shared our anxieties over our studies and our elation over our well-earned grades. In second-year we moved into a small, dilapidated house with four other girlfriends and Kate and I became the best of friends, cheering each other on through graduate school and into the work force.

With my teaching degree in hand, I focused on finding a way to return back home, where one of my sisters, Gemma, was a nurse at the local hospital, and the other one, Caroline, had twins on the way. I had definitely come full circle and knew who I cherished most in life. With my parents ageing and my sisters settling into comfortable lives in our hometown, I yearned to be near them and teaching in the familiar rooms within my old school.

When I opened the letter that offered me the grade three teaching position at Port Colebrook Elementary School, I smiled and curled up in my armchair. I could feel my body being transported through the air, to my childhood classroom and into the snowy woods of Narnia. While I was returning to a place I knew well, I felt adventure and excitement ahead. Being able to share and then follow young minds into imaginary places was something I found thrilling. It all felt right to be heading back to where it all began.

On my first day home I was settling into a tiny, freshly painted apartment on the second floor of a house, just a few blocks from the school. A loud knock rattled my open front door. Tom peered in through the door frame. He had a bottle of bubbly in his hand, and he had come to congratulate me on coming home to what he knew was my dream job. His smile at the door melted away any hard feelings, and we became inseparable. I was never late for him again.

Now seven years and two children later, we are a happy family. We are not as busy and loud a family as the one I came from, but we are close. And most important, I have learned to protect time so that I spend more time with those I love most – and right now that is Tom, and our sweet little Sara and Sam.

Kate

FRANK? HE SEEMED so much like Frank, but apparently his name was Trevor. He was perfect. Charm sparkled through him. He moved with ease and his smile warmed up his whole face and unbeknownst to him, all of me.

I rushed along the hallway to my office. Holding my laptop tight to my chest, my eyes narrowed, seeing only the runway in front of me. Noise filled my head. His laugh. His clever and well-chosen words as he confidently shared his presentation about how children’s toothpaste sales could be improved with cartoon characters and a targeted rewards program.

Where did he come from? Did they say he had been transferred from another division or did he come from outside of the company? I hadn’t paid attention to Terry as he had introduced our new team member. It was only when Trevor began to talk that I had become captivated, instantly.

I turned into my office, closed the door and leaned against it. A flood of mistrust surged within me. A smile and words from long ago floated across my mind’s movie screen. Beautiful girls, can we join you? Dressed in a pink golf shirt, freshly pressed khakis and Adidas running shoes, an eighteen-year-old Frank straddled the picnic bench beside me and stared directly into my trusting, teenage face. In those days that face of mine was pure porcelain and blemish free, due to a day and night regime inherited from my mother. Well, yes! chorused Debbie and Suzie as I sat stunned by this sudden attention. And so, Frank and his friends began a six-week summer interest in me and my two girlfriends.

That summer, I was a naïve, over-protected sixteen-year-old, working part-time, with a lot of free time on my hands. It was a formative period of my life and an indelible mark was left by Frank that summer. Day after day we met up, butterflies constantly in my stomach. Amazing soft kisses led to folding into each other’s arms. Frank’s adventurous nature created excitement and wonder as we tripped through forests, looked for out of the way garden sheds or unoccupied summer cottages, and in hindsight, searched out places where we could escape and explore each other. He was so handsome, like a movie star. And he had chosen me and spoken out in public about how beautiful I was, and how lucky he was. He made me feel incredibly special, and simply on top of the world.

It all ended with something we both wanted. I thought that having sex and giving ourselves to each other made us a real couple. But then just three days later Frank ran into a pretty red-head with a shapely figure in the grocery store and he was off in pursuit. I was totally crushed. Being with Frank had been all consuming. He was the first male in my life who doted on me. For a month I had seen myself through his eyes and saw a beautiful woman with a desirable body.

Afterwards, I could just imagine what my mother would say if she knew about it. Some men enjoy pursuing beautiful women and never stop; they move from one to the next. I had never known my father, but understood from my mother that he loved beautiful women, and loved too many of them at one time. That wasn’t a way to live so Mom had left and my father had never been curious enough to follow. When I was twenty-five I tracked him down, but after doing so and keeping him under surveillance for a few days, I decided that I too didn’t like who he was - married but charming every female he met. And so I left my sleuthing behind me, without ever approaching him.

But being dumped so suddenly at age sixteen was a problem. The brightness of Frank never had the opportunity to dim. I never had a chance to find his imperfection (beyond him liking someone else). Without having something about him to hate, I continued to like him, or what I imagined he was. Since then, I have pretty much been looking for another Frank. But because who I am looking for likely doesn’t exist in real life, I’ve had difficulty finding him. Sticking to the narration I have concocted about Frank has helped to keep dating a short, sporadic and unsuccessful series of events, that has kept me, my story book heroine, all on her own.

But now, after two decades, Frank is back. But his name is Trevor.

I moved over to my desk, sat down and pulled out my makeup mirror and weighed in. What was Trevor seeing? A brunette with long, dark hair, carefully curled at the ends with a curling iron and then sprayed lightly so as to keep all in place through a long day. A face with smooth skin and a light layer of foundation that helped to cover small marks of time that were beginning to show up. But the beauty coaching from Mom had been extreme and, in hindsight, most helpful and well informed. Cleansers, toners, moisturizers and avoiding sun as if it were poison had all done an excellent job. All those hours perched beside my mother’s beauty stool at a large mirror edge with glowing lightbulbs had paid off. Fabulous skin and a keen awareness of how to apply eyeshadow, blush, and lipstick, and how to properly draw that perfect eyebrow arch. The result was being the subject of on-going compliments from friends and occasional dates. Stunning and gorgeous were the recurring words that came my way and I always smiled and thought of Mom, and thanked her often. I trained with the best!

Shoving the mirror back into my right-hand drawer, I flipped open my laptop and searched for Trevor’s name in the company directory. A smile bounced off the screen at me and I sat back. A handsome face attached to broad shoulders that filled out an attractive dark suit stared up at me. I peered forward and squinted as I read about his short corporate background, education and university graduation date. I paused. Then I grimaced. The math was simple. He was exactly ten years younger than me. This was awkward.

There was a knock on the door and I looked up. The same face on my computer screen was staring at me through my doorway.

Hello, Kate. I wanted to more formally introduce myself, said Trevor. I know you must be very busy, and the way you left the meeting, well we never had the chance to really say hello.

Right, welcome, I said in my steady managerial voice. I closed out the computer window, stood and crossed the office to shake his hand. Impressive presentation. I like your proposed strategy.

I could feel myself moving into professional mode. My mother had not only taught me about beauty. She was a staunch supporter of the theory that women should have it all, and in business that happened by tuning into the male world with full force. Strength is admired, she taught, and be prepared to be on your own sometimes, because some men and women don’t know how to handle an efficient and capable woman. And then she reassured me, Kate, my dear, remember they will respect a powerful woman, which is what you will become as you advance ahead of them.

Thank you, Trevor said as he smiled and nodded. I’m hoping to learn from you. I’ve seen your work and it’s extensive.

I shuddered at his choice of words. Extensive work felt like he had just circled my age in red pen. This would be one of many conversations that started warm and friendly and then had me climbing the wall, in search of a way out. I hated feeling older. I had had the good fortune of spending most of life looking younger than my friends. I loved it when those I met thought of me as wise beyond my years, when in fact I wasn’t as young as they thought, and my insight was totally appropriate for my age and experience.

Over the next few months, Trevor and I had the good luck of working together through a number of key assignments. However, we both seemed to take great care to keep our interactions extremely professional. I had been told that Trevor was dating his university sweetheart and later I learned that Trevor had been told that I was very private and didn’t mix work with my personal life. So, I took Trevor’s charm and deep gazes as just part of his warm character and Trevor steered clear from ever including me in after work drinks, which of course only reconfirmed to me that he wasn’t interested.

Until one day. During a long week of building a presentation for the board, we found ourselves late at night, alone and huddled over a shared computer screen. It only took the simultaneous raising of our heads and a long five second gaze, to trigger the slow moving of our heads together and the softest of kisses.

September Girls’

Bike Ride at 35

DIANNE SLIDES INTO one of the soft, green upholstered chairs encircling the dining room table. At five foot two, eyes of blue , her tiny stature, pixie haircut and button nose could have a far-away observer believing a child has mistakenly joined the adult table. Nicole affectionately squeezes Dianne’s shoulder as she passes behind her, slipping into a second chair. Her long, slender arms reach out and she rests her hands on the linen table top. And then Kate strides into the room, and its as if her glowing complexion brightens the dark walls. It’s so wonderful to be back here again, she says with great exuberance and collapses into her seat with an ahh!.

They’re seated together at the sole table set up in the library of Abigail’s Bed & Breakfast. Located in the small town of Ellington, Abigail’s is where they’ve been gathering for their annual visit for the past three years. The tradition began when Dianne instigated the idea of pressing the pause button on their busy lives. Knowing Kate from her city and university days and Nicole from her quieter small-town life in Port Colebrook, Dianne pulled the three of them together for a bike ride, dinner and overnight stay at Abigail’s. While Dianne visits with both of them during the year, Kate and Nicole don’t see each other through the year. They’re still more acquaintances at this stage, sometimes becoming cautious when engaging on new subjects. But Dianne has enjoyed watching them learn to enjoy each other and embrace their differences. She knows Kate can be brash and opinionated and Nicole is more reserved and careful. But Dianne believes all three of them share a strength and vulnerability that is similar and she suspects in time they will all become closer.

What a day! That felt amazing to really ride a bike again, pipes up Dianne. It’s been too long since I rode for hours and hours. When Tom and I are out with the kids, we’re lucky if we can get them to bike to and from the park.

Kate pulls back her long-tussled dark brown hair into an elastic band and then strips off her cashmere cardigan and ties the arms loosely around her shoulders. Well, their little legs can only go so far right now. But in time they’ll be challenging you to keep up with them. Just you wait. Now, that ride has made me hungry. And thirsty too. What are you ladies going to drink?

Hmm, on weekdays I’m partial to a beer each afternoon, replies Nicole thoughtfully. But this is the weekend, so I think I’d prefer a glass of wine.

Kate frowns, You have a beer every day?

Just during the week, says Nicole with a smile, as she picks up the water pitcher and pours ice water into each of their glasses. Some people meditate or engage in yoga. I enjoy pouring a cold beer.

She’s been like that since I met her, Dianne chimes in with a grin. If I ever went part-time at work and could be home for my afternoons, I think I might adapt your practice, Nicole. You’re one of the most together and balanced people I know. Sorry Kate, but it’s true. Nicole, I don’t think I’ve ever watched you blow your top with the kids. There may be something in a well-timed, daily dose of alcohol.

Interesting theory. I will keep said strategy in mind if I ever have children or have the chance to go part-time. So, do we know what Abigail has cooked up for dinner tonight? asks Kate. Every year we have been lucky that we happen to have liked what she’s serving. I find it fascinating that she survives the local review ratings. Her draconian behaviour around dinner time is completely against all principles of the customer comes first. Is everyone prepared to eat every single item that lands on your plate?

Smiling, Nicole winks and reaches for the small dinner menu, sitting on the corner of the table, and reads out the details of the four-course meal. They all nod their heads in approval, and Kate waves down Abigail as she passes by their door en route to the main dining room.

Good evening, ladies, Abigail booms, her voice a mirror of her big boned physique. Her short black hair, cropped at the neck, has even streaks of grey and her beady dark eyes flit back and forth between each of them, with a curious mix of interrogation and welcome. The menu is set, but the wine isn’t. So, what would you like to drink?

In time a bottle of Prosecco appears, is popped and consumed and a basket of homemade bread arrives and is quickly devoured. Having ridden for five hours and having caught up with the usual light chatter while on the road, they are ready for a hearty dinner with an even heartier conversation.

So, ladies, it’s been a full year since the three of us sat around this table, says Dianne. "Time to catch up. Since I’m the