The Good Part(18)

The hint of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. ‘They went a long time ago.’ She tucks a loose strand of red hair behind an ear.

‘And are you still lino printing?’

Emily closes her eyes briefly, as though indulging me. Then she says, ‘I work in executive search now. I live in Kent, I have three children.’

‘Oh, wow, that’s crazy.’

‘Listen Lucy, I’m sorry, but if you’re serious, I think you really do need to see a doctor.’ She pauses. ‘Do you have a history of mental health issues? Has this happened to you before?’

‘I don’t need a doctor, Em, I just need a friend.’

‘Lucy, we haven’t spoken in fifteen years.’

‘We haven’t?’

‘No. We didn’t stay in touch when we gave up the flat.’ She drops her gaze.

‘What about Julian? Where’s he?’

‘I think he lives in America now.’ She bites her lip. ‘Look, is there someone I can call for you? Family? Your GP? One of your old school friends? I’m about to go into a meeting, but I feel a duty of care now that you’ve called me.’

Duty of care? She sounds nothing like the Emily I know, and I don’t want her calling people, telling them I’m on drugs or that I’ve lost my mind.

‘No, no, thank you. I’m fine, look I’m probably just hungover. I was passing the flat and thought of you and . . .’ And what? I thought she might still live here? I thought she might be able to help me? ‘Just a bad case of nostalgia, I guess. I’ll be fine. Good luck with your meeting.’

Hanging up the phone I lean my shoulder against the front door. Of all the unbelievable things I’ve been faced with this morning, that hippy-dippy Emily now wears a suit and works in executive search is one of the least fathomable. A feeling of intense loneliness crawls over me. Something about Emily’s reaction – she was never going to believe me. Who would believe me? If I put myself in her shoes and someone called me with this story, wouldn’t I give them the exact advice Emily just gave me – to see a doctor? Maybe I am ill. I open my phone again, clutching it like a lifeline.

Fit Fun Fabulous Alert – Your stress levels are highly elevated. Why not engage in a leisurely walk?

‘Fuck off,’ I tell the screen, deleting the app. I think about calling my parents, but as I scroll to ‘Home’ a new queasiness sinks in. If I’m really in my forties, both my parents would be in their seventies by now. What if they don’t answer? What if . . .

As I’m holding it, my phone flashes in my hand. ‘Office’ is calling again, and I find myself answering it, if only to distract myself from the horrible thought that one or both of my parents might be dead.

‘Lucy, it’s Trey, where are you?’ says a loud male voice.

‘Vauxhall,’ I say.

‘Did you have train issues? The channel execs are here. I’ve given them coffee, but we don’t want to start the pitch without you. How soon can you get here?’ Whoever Trey is, he sounds stressed.

‘Um, yes, about that, I’m . . . sick.’

Though I am curious to see where Future Me works, clearly I can’t attend any kind of meeting right now, I wouldn’t know anything. I assume from what Trey’s said that I still work in TV, but TV production could be completely different now. It might all be made by robots with 4D cameras and Smellovision. Though given the lack of improvements on the trains, I might be giving the future too much credit.

‘You’re sick?’ echoes Trey in alarm. ‘I thought you were in Vauxhall?’

‘I’m so sick. Something I ate for breakfast. Bad kippers.’ Kippers? Why did I say kippers? Only eighty-year-old men who wear handkerchief sun hats and live in boarding houses in Margate eat kippers. ‘Can you do the meeting for me?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Me? You want me to deliver the pitch? Surely Michael should do it?’ says Trey, his voice rising an octave.

‘Yes, yes, Michael, of course. Kippers remorse is messing with my head. Um, got to go, I think I’m going to be sick again. Good luck!’ It’s not a total lie. I have been sick today.

That was stupid of me to answer the call.

So, if I can’t go home and I can’t go to work, where do I go now?

The newsagent’s. The wishing machine.

That’s where this started, I’m sure of it. If I can find the machine, maybe I can wish myself back. If that’s really what this is – some supernatural wish fulfilment? But where was it, the newsagent’s? After leaving Dale’s, I remember running in the rain, though I’m not sure how far or in what direction. Getting home from the newsagent’s is a complete blur. Is that because I never made it home, or because it happened sixteen years ago?

Closing my eyes, I try to visualise what I’m looking for – a blue awning, a street name beginning with B; it can’t have been far from the pub, The Falcon? What was it called? I highlight Southwark on my phone then search ‘pubs’. Several dots appear on the screen. The Rising Sun, the Huntsman and Hound, the Falkirk. The Falkirk, that was it. It’s still there.

Following the map, I feel a renewed optimism. Find the pub, find the newsagent’s, wish myself home, and all this will be over – a surreal story to tell my friends in the morning. When I get to the pub, it looks entirely different, it’s now a brutalist black glass and steel box. It must have been demolished and rebuilt but retained the same name. What is it with people demolishing all these perfectly good buildings? Following some instinct, I head down one road, then another. Then in front of me, a familiar street name, Baskin Road, an old red phone box on the corner, a feeling I have been here before. This is the place. Turning onto the street I hold my breath, hoping to see a blue and white awning. But there is nothing – only a building site, bannered ‘Schwarz Construction’, and three or four flattened plots on the side of the street where the newsagent’s would have been. And as quickly as my hopes for a way home were raised, they are dashed to oblivion.