Something odd and dis-quietening happened recently: I discovered that I am being lied about. I was chatting with a friend who isn’t called Ettie when she asked me:
What happened between you and Suzanne?
It was a while ago, I said, but I did inadvertently betray a confidence and she’s never really forgiven me. Why?
I’ve been chatting with her on IM said Ettie and everything was fine until I asked her about you. She went completely mad, said you’d ruined the Reunion she organised last year.
This astonished me, and that sort of reaction shows in my face. I took a deep breath in:
WhaTT? I was there for five days and ill for three of them! How could I have possibly ruined it?
I took another breath in and deliberately let the subject go. If someone says those sorts of things about you, there is nothing you can do and little you can say without turning into Hamlet’s mother and protesting far too much.
My initial reaction was astonished anger, but I am seeing it from other perspectives now. Susanne’s view of me hasn’t damaged my friendships and, as Ettie demonstrates, our mutual friends are still speaking to both of us and I am glad of that: there is no need for cross-fire. I’ve asked anyone who might want to broke a rapprochement not to try: I’ve moved on and am not interested, and Suzanne seems to be a blue touch paper waiting to be lit.
You see, despite trying hard to live up to the motto never complain, never explain, I do dislike being lied about. I find it sad that the reunion was ruined for her. It was a splendid event which she organised, investing a lot of time and emotion in it and which she appeared to enjoy at the time. In fact we had a very pleasant correspondence about it afterwards because there was a souvenir I missed which she offered to buy and send on to me.
It is sad, but it seems that she ruined it for herself. I was hiding from light and noise most of the time, taking painkillers and whimpering. Maliciously, obviously.
Incidentally, while looking for a picture for this post I came across this stunning poem by Alan Dunnett. I’d pull out my own back teeth to be able to write like that.