The Good Part(38)

‘No way,’ says Zoya. ‘I guess you, Luce, you’re the most romantic.’

‘I might have to kiss someone first, but okay. Ooh, most likely to get divorced.’

‘Roisin!’ Zoya says with a smile, and the camera moves to Roisin who gives Zoya the finger. ‘What? You’ll be like Elizabeth Taylor.’

‘Most likely to be a nun?’ comes my voice again.

‘Faye!’ shouts Roisin.

‘So, I’m a nun and a witch? I don’t like this game,’ says Faye.

‘Most likely to become prime minister?’ I ask.

‘Zoya,’ Roisin and I both say together. This question hits me hard because she could have been, she could have been anything she set her mind to.

‘Most likely to have kids first,’ I ask, and the yearbook creeps back into frame.

‘You,’ Zoya says, her eyes intent on the person behind the camera and it feels as though she’s talking to me, here, now. ‘You’ll marry a nice man and have two point four children. Then split your time between a quiet cottage in Devon and your glam pad in Hollywood.’

‘Where are you in all this?’ I ask her. ‘I don’t want to live in Hollywood if none of you are there with me.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll all go off and do our own thing for a bit. I’ll be an artist, travelling the world in a clapped-out van. Then, when we’re old, we’ll dump our men and the four of us will live in a commune,’ Zoya says, her smile lighting up the screen. Then my dad’s voice shouts from somewhere far off, ‘Lucy, girls, are you ready to go?’ and the camera view drops to my shoes. ‘Coming!’ I yell. That’s the end of the video.

Hindsight can be so cruel. Seeing my childhood bedroom, I think of all the hours of my life spent with Zoya – at school, at her parents’ house, at mine, on nights out, hanging out at Kennington Lane. How can all that shared life just end? Where have all her memories gone?

As I’m scrolling through more videos, from times I can remember, Sam’s face, furrowed with concern, appears around the bedroom door.

‘Can I get you anything? Coffee, company?’

I shake my head and turn over in bed to face the wall. I can’t face talking.

I text Michael: I’m sick again. I can’t come to work.

I sleep. Sam brings me food like I’m an invalid. Downstairs, I hear life going on without me.



I decide to call my parents. There’s no answer on the home phone, so I call my mother’s mobile. As I wait for her to answer, a thought takes hold – I could ask them to come and get me, to take me home to my childhood bedroom. Mum could look after me, make me chocolate semolina like she did whenever I was ill as a child. Dad could light the fire in the living room while filling me in on the daily waxing and waning of his vegetable plot. The thought brings on such a wave of nostalgic longing, I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying out.

‘Hello, Lucy,’ my mother’s voice sounds distant. ‘You know we’re in Scotland? We’re out and about, if it sounds windy. Does it sound windy?’

‘Scotland?’ I ask, the urge to sob receding.

‘We won that voucher, remember? We’re staying at the Balmoral. It’s terribly smart. The Scots do know how to do a hotel.’

I hear Dad’s voice in the background, ‘We’re being treated like royalty. Tell her we’ll bring her back some of that rum and raisin flavoured tablet she likes.’

‘She doesn’t like rum and raisin tablet, Bert, it’s you that likes it,’ says Mum. ‘Honestly. Oh, the bus is coming. No, that one, Bert, the fifty-seven. Yes! Yes, flag it down! Sorry, Lucy, we’re on the fly. Is everything okay? We’re seeing you soon, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t miss your bus. I’ll catch up with you later.’

Hearing their voices was enough.



Faye visits often. She brings home-made herbal teas and my favourite Rich Tea biscuits. Mostly, we sit on my bed and watch Poirot together.

‘You must have watched all these so many times, there can’t be any mystery left,’ Faye says. I remind her that for me, that’s the point.



Sam is giving me space, sleeping in the spare room, occasionally coming in to get clothes, to let daylight in and to ask if I want clean sheets. This might be a tactful, grown-up way of telling me I stink and that I should get up and have a shower. I ignore it.

Roisin video calls me from LA. Faye must have filled her in on what’s happened.

‘Are you faking this to get out of something?’ she asks, a familiar teasing tone in her voice. ‘I remember you always faked period cramps to get out of swimming at school.’

‘Yes. I’m faking amnesia to get out of work,’ I deadpan. ‘And childcare.’ She laughs, and I want to reach down the phone and hold her. Her laugh is just the same.

‘I’ll come and see you as soon as I’m back,’ she says, her voice softer now. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you, babe.’ I wish she’d stuck to teasing because when Roisin starts taking something seriously, you know it really must be serious.



During the day, when everyone is out and I have the house to myself, I spend hours inspecting my face in the mirror, looking for signs that this might be temporary, that the real me might still be in there somewhere. These hours in front of the mirror don’t help my state of mind, especially when I find several chin hairs. Chin hairs! We’re not talking downy cheek fuzz here, we’re talking centimetre-long, wiry hair, like I’m a wizened old crone. Where did these come from? My neck is also upsetting me. The fine lines and wrinkles I can cope with, but my neck resembles a tent without enough tent poles, the tautness is gone. I experiment with pulling the skin up and back, searching for the familiar contours.