The Good Part(7)

‘Ambition is like perfume, Lucy. A little goes a long way.’

And just like that, my optimism about today, about ever escaping the bottom rung, vanishes.





Chapter 3


‘I ate a croissant out of a bin today.’ Zoya, Faye, Roisin and I sit in the Blue Posts on Newman Street later that evening. I’ve been putting a brave face on it all day, but now, among my closest friends, I can be honest about my mortification.

‘Oh Lucy, why?’ Faye asks, leaning across the bench to put an arm around me.

‘Because I didn’t have breakfast and I was hungry. I only had to pick off a few pencil shavings.’ I hang my head in shame. ‘Do you think I’ll get lead poisoning?’

‘They don’t make pencils out of lead any more. You can eat as many pencils as you like,’ says Roisin.

‘Well, Bin Muncher, we’re still proud of you, of your promotion,’ says Zoya, reaching out to clink her glass with mine.

The four of us have been there to support each other through everything: exams, break-ups, Faye’s parents separating, Roisin losing her mum. We’ve celebrated each other getting driving licences, degrees, first jobs, first loves, first flats. But now, four years out of university, I never seem to have as much to celebrate as the others. Roisin is killing it at one of the big law firms, and she and her boyfriend Paul are talking about moving in together. Faye is a chiropractor, working in a thriving practice in Hampstead, and she’s already a homeowner. As for Zoya, well, she’s about to move out of our gross flat share and get a place of her own.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, slumping back into the pub’s worn leather seat. ‘Everyone’s still treating me like the runner. Maybe I’m deluding myself that I’m getting anywhere at all.’

‘TV is one of the most competitive industries there is,’ says Faye, rubbing my back, ‘and you’re working on The Howard Stourton Show, for goodness sake. Eighteen-year-old you would be pinching herself.’

‘You’re right, she would,’ I say, twirling the stem of my wine glass. Faye always thinks of the perfect thing to say.

‘Maybe you need to be bolder with this Melanie woman,’ says Roisin. ‘When I started at my law firm, people always left it to me to pour tea and coffee in meetings. Even if there were several other junior associates in the room, everyone turned to me as the woman. I ended up talking to one of the partners about it. I said I thought it made the firm look misogynist and old-fashioned if junior female lawyers were always left holding the teapot. You know what he did? He made it firm policy that if there was tea to pour, it would always be the most senior person in the room who poured it.’

‘Wow. Go, Roisin,’ says Zoya. ‘Modern-day Emmeline Pankhurst right there.’

Roisin kicks her under the table.

‘Ow! I was being serious!’ Zoya laughs.

‘You tell this Melanie, “I’m not being your tea bitch any more. Find some other sucker,” ’ says Roisin, jabbing a finger at my chest.

The very idea of saying this to Melanie makes me choke on my wine and Faye pats me on the back until I regain my composure.

‘Unfortunately, I think “tea bitch” is in my job description,’ I say. ‘I can handle it. It would just be nice to know it’s all going to be worth it, that it will work out eventually.’

‘This coming from the person who reads the last chapter of a book first, because she needs to know how it ends,’ says Zoya, putting her arm around me.

‘I did that once.’

‘And you ruined it for yourself, didn’t you?’ Zoya says, tutting.

‘I did.’

‘I hate the thought of you going hungry, Luce. If you can’t afford to eat, I can give you money for breakfast,’ says Faye.

‘I will buy you a bed of croissants,’ says Zoya, ‘and a duvet of jam.’

‘No, thank you, but that’s my point. You guys are always buying me drinks and bailing me out. I don’t want to be a freeloader all my life.’ My lip wobbles, and everyone stops trying to find words to make me feel better and instead leans in for a group hug.

‘I’m fine, honestly, just having one of those days. I’m sure I’ll wake up tomorrow with a whole new perspective.’

‘Blame the moon, it’s a waxing gibbous moon tonight, always challenging,’ says Faye, raising her hands in the air and stretching.

‘Ah, so it’s the moon that’s to blame for Zoya abandoning me,’ I say.

‘What? Are you moving out?’ Roisin asks Zoya, who shifts awkwardly in her chair.

‘It’s time for me to have my own space. That’s why I took the job at Foxtons – I want to live in a nice place, I want to have money to go out, to travel. There’s so much life I want to live, and everything costs money.’

‘I want to do all those things too,’ I say, then immediately regret the note of self-pity in my voice.

‘If TV’s not making you happy, maybe it isn’t worth the long hours and the terrible pay?’ Zoya says. ‘I could get you a job at Foxtons tomorrow, you’d be brilliant. How fun would that be, Luce, us working together? Then we could both move out!’ Zoya bounces up and down in her seat, nearly upending her wine.

‘I don’t want to be an estate agent, Zoya,’ I snap, my wine-softened brain letting out the words before I can filter them. There’s a heavy pause, and I sense Faye physically brace, her hand tightening around her wine glass, while Roisin makes an audible intake of breath.