The doll does remind me a little of Abbie, my best friend. 

Same colour hair, although greying a little now I suspect.  She keeps it well covered with regular visits to the salon but I remember her dark, unruly braids from when we were younger.

Abbie had been the new girl at primary school, and I had been given the job of showing her around for the first week.  We quickly became best friends and spent most of our time in and out of each other's houses.  Mum often said it was like having another daughter, which Abbie loved.  Her own mum was always too busy to pay her much attention.
We shared everything when we were kids.  Clothes, make up, dreams.   Abbie had wanted to be a film star back then and she was so pretty that it didn’t seem that farfetched.  I giggle at the memory of Abbie playing Juliet, the thick, Glaswegian accent not doing Mr Shakespeare’s words any favours at all.

She didn’t let it stop her though.  For such a fragile looking little thing, she had a determination that was frightening.  She applied for drama school in Edinburgh and refined her accent.  We had both been so excited when she got in.  The graduation photo on the table shows the two of us wrapped around each other, smiling at the camera, squinting against the sun.  Happy.
I take a sip of my tea and study the photograph.  So young. 

We took very different paths, she and I.  She started to get some small parts in independent films which lead to bigger roles.  She never became a huge star but she was a bit of a local celebrity for a while.  Jerry and I used to laugh at the commotion she would cause when she came to visit.  It wasn’t exactly the Paparazzi hanging about outside like a scene from Notting Hill but there was always a journalist or two milling about.  She was Maid of Honour at our wedding and the local paper covered it.
She used to tell me she envied my life, that I had what she wanted.  I don’t really believe that for a second, she just enjoys the contrast.

Neither of us had children.  Jerry and I couldn’t and she didn’t want to, so it was a bit of a surprise when she told me she was pregnant.  Pregnant at 42 no less. 

This was yesterday when I came home to find her telling Jerry he was going to be a father.
So I have this doll for her. 

I stroke it’s black hair of crude wool, a little like Abbie’s, as I stab the first pin.