The Good Part(65)

‘That’s love. Perfect pants recall,’ Roisin says as Alex and Faye kiss. Watching them, I have a sudden flash – a memory of them on their wedding day, both dressed in white, outside a town hall, Faye with purple flowers in her hair. I must have seen a photograph somewhere on the house tour.

‘Well, I never liked him, if that helps at all,’ I tell Roisin. ‘He had that leg jiggle he was always doing – so annoying. And he was such a coffee snob. I remember you’d spend your weekends hunting out obscure independent coffee shops. Sometimes you just need a Starbucks, Paul.’

‘He was an Aries,’ says Faye, as though this is the worst thing she can think of to say about someone.

‘Thank you both, I appreciate the sentiment,’ says Roisin.

‘Tell me he got some comeuppance for the red thong situation?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ Roisin shakes her head. ‘They’re getting married next month. She’s got family money, and a mansion in St John’s Wood. They’re happy as fuckin’ clams.’

‘Comeuppance only happens in fiction and religion,’ Alex says.

‘His comeuppance is, he’s a dick head,’ says Faye, and Roisin blows her a kiss across the kitchen island. Faye rarely uses bad language, so it feels very effective when she does.

There’s a pause in conversation while Faye tops up everyone’s glasses, then she says, ‘Imagine if we were actually twenty-six again.’

‘I wouldn’t do my twenties again if you paid me,’ says Roisin. ‘All men under thirty-five are twats, you’re bottom of the pile at work, plus you have to fly everywhere economy.’

‘The rest of us still fly economy, Roisin,’ says Faye, rolling her eyes.

‘I don’t know, I think there’s something glorious about being in your twenties, your whole life is ahead of you and everything’s a possibility,’ says Alex, picking up aubergines and peppers to throw into her lethal-looking peeling and cutting machine.

‘I will give youth alcohol tolerance and skin elasticity, which were both excellent,’ says Roisin. ‘What about you, Lucy, would you go back, if you could?’

‘Yes,’ I say, without even hesitating. ‘I can see the advantages to being this age, but there are things I didn’t expect too. Life just feels so busy, like there’s never any time. The big stuff seems so much bigger, the sad stuff . . . well, it’s really fucking sad.’ I pause.

‘You’re right, in some ways, life only gets more complicated,’ says Alex. ‘The older you get, the more you encounter grief, pain and disappointment. Anyone who hasn’t, it is coming for them.’

‘Amen,’ says Roisin. ‘Life is never sorted. It’s just an undulating shit storm of problems and pleasure.’

‘This is all really cheery stuff,’ I say wryly.

‘But’ – Alex holds up a hand, she hasn’t finished – ‘maybe bones need to be broken for you to suck out the marrow of life. We are lucky, we are here, when others are not. I wear the grey in my hair as a badge of honour, the privilege of ageing.’

We all pause for a moment, glasses still in our hands.

‘She’d be so disappointed in us, wouldn’t she, staying in, cooking vegetable risotto, drinking eco wine from a flask,’ Roisin says, tilting her head to one side.

‘She would,’ I say, my voice breaking.

‘To Zoya,’ says Alex, lifting her wine in the air.

‘To Zoya,’ says Faye, meeting my eye. ‘Who we miss, every single day.’

We raise our glasses, making eye contact with one another, a look that says more than words ever could.

‘Sam doesn’t think I’m the same person I was a few weeks ago,’ I say quietly. ‘Honestly, I was worried you all might find me lacking too.’

‘What? How could he say that?’ says Faye with a frown.

‘You’re not lacking anything,’ says Roisin firmly. ‘Your jokes are still terrible, you still drink too fast and I see you’re clinging on to statement earrings like they didn’t go out of style.’ She pauses. ‘I don’t feel like you’ve changed at all.’

‘Maybe that’s because we all revert to being teenagers when we’re around each other,’ I say, leaning my head against Roisin’s shoulder.

‘Or your friends simply know you the best,’ says Faye.

Sitting down to eat, sinking into this familiar rhythm of conversation, it feels like putting on an old, beloved coat – warm and comforting, embroidered with an indelible history. It refuels me, revives me, and I’m glad I did not go home to watch Poirot alone.



Sam is awake, reading in the living room when I get back.

‘Hi, how was your night?’ he asks.

‘Great. It was lovely to see everyone,’ I tell him. Everyone. The word sticks in my mouth because it wasn’t everyone.

‘Good, I’m glad you went,’ he says, closing his book, then nodding his head to one side and patting the sofa, inviting me to sit beside him. Once I’m sitting, he pulls my foot into his lap, takes off my shoe and starts rubbing the sole of my foot. It feels strangely intimate, but I let myself sink into it.

‘Where are you at, Luce? I can’t tell what you’re thinking,’ he asks gently. ‘Was I wrong to tell you about Chloe?’