The Good Part(37)



Faye looks at me, and it takes a minute to identify the look in her eyes – pity.

‘That might just be something you remember, Luce. It doesn’t mean it’s cause and effect.’ She pauses, head tilted. ‘The newsagent’s in Southwark?’ she asks, and I nod. ‘I remember you telling us about that night. When you lived in Kennington Lane – the date who got naked, your shoes dissolving in the rain, the mad old Scottish lady who offered you a free go on her wishing machine. You dined out on that story for months. It was a classic Lucy caper.’

A cold, numbing sensation creeps down my neck, along each limb, all the way to my fingers and I crunch my hands into fists. She remembers me telling her about Thursday night. I feel nauseous. The logic of my narrative starting to crumble, because with Zoya gone, how could this possibly be the good part of my life? And if these years happened and I forgot them, then I won’t be going back. Falling in love, getting married, having children, I’ll never experience any of them. Worst of all, Zoya will really be dead, I will never see her again. I won’t get to say goodbye. I won’t get to say, ‘I’m sorry.’





Chapter 15


Google lays out the five stages of grief for me. One: denial. Done. Clearly this isn’t happening. Two: anger. Have I done anger? I don’t think I have. ARRRGGGHH. I must have skipped that stage. Perhaps I’m too confused to be angry and the anger will come later. Three: bargaining. Done. I lay in bed last night swearing to any deity who would listen, that I would never complain about my shitty damp flat or Mr Finkley or not having any money, ever again, if only I could go back to my real life, back to Zoya being alive. The fourth is depression. I guess that’s where I am now because I’ve been in bed for three days, hiding from this scary new, Zoya-less world. Five, acceptance, feels a long way off.

Confining myself to bed, days and nights start merging into one long, continuous landscape of time. I sleep a lot. Sam and the doctors think I need ‘time to recuperate’, as though I’m recovering from concussion and my brain simply needs quiet time in a dark room to heal. But it is my heart, not my brain, that is broken.



I wake from fitful bouts of sleep, my chest contracting with a tight panic, my sheets damp with sweat. I need to call Zoya. I need to find her. Where is she?

My phone is the only place I can look. Scrolling back through the years, I find the very first video I have of her – it is of the four of us at sixteen, getting ready for the end of year social at my house.

I’m filming. Zoya is doing Faye’s make-up on the bed, and Roisin is pinning up her minidress in the mirror to make it even shorter. Roisin has feathers in her hair, which makes me muster a smile, because I’d forgotten hair feathers were ever a thing.

‘Guys, I’m filming. We’ve got to record this moment,’ comes my sixteen-year-old voice from behind the camera.

‘What is so important about this moment?’ Faye asks. She looks so young, with her round face and chunky braces. She’s wearing a side fringe, which she was always fiddling with, desperate to grow out.

‘Us, finishing our GCSE year,’ I say from behind the camera, moving towards Zoya who waves.

‘Our graduation into womanhood,’ Roisin says in a mockingly dramatic voice. ‘Our last night of purity before the virgin sacrifices.’ When the camera moves to Roisin, I see how much more mature she looks than the rest of us. Her body developed first, and she was taller than we were. No wonder she was able to get served in a bar at fifteen. Out of everyone, it is Zoya who looks most unchanged. Same big hair, same small body. Her skin has a few pimples, her cheeks are a little rounder, but otherwise, she looks just as I remember her.

‘Who’s doing a virgin sacrifice?’ Faye asks, frowning, always prone to take Roisin too seriously.

‘Hopefully Will Havers will be sacrificing mine,’ Roisin says, running towards the camera and trying to lick the screen.

‘Gross, stop it, this is my dad’s phone!’ I squeal.

‘Stop filming then,’ Roisin says, holding her hand up against the lens. ‘Pervert.’

‘Oh, let her,’ says Zoya. ‘She’s got to practise for her big career in show business. You can interview me.’

Roisin moves aside, and the camera travels across to Zoya. She stops doing Faye’s make-up and sits down on the bed.

‘Okay, yearbook questions,’ I say, in the tone of a serious interviewer, and the camera wobbles as I consult the yearbook in my other hand. ‘When we’re old, like thirty, we’ll watch this back and see what we got right. First question,’ my voice goes on. ‘Which of us is most likely to be rich?’

Zoya thinks for a moment. ‘Faye. She’ll be one of those good witches, who makes her own potions. They’ll blow up online and become cult products.’

‘I made my own perfume once,’ says Faye, leaning across the bed and draping her long arms around Zoya in a clumsy hug. We were always hugging each other back then, climbing on each other, sitting on each other’s laps. There was zero sense of personal space.

‘A good witch, I said, good witch,’ says Zoya, kissing her cheek.

‘Most likely to get married?’ I ask, the camera wobbling as I consult the yearbook again.

‘Zoya,’ Roisin and Faye say at the same time, then both shout, ‘Jinx.’

Sophie Cousens's Books