‘Faye, I didn’t want to say over text, but’ – I opt for the rational explanation – ‘I’m having some memory issues. I know this will sound dramatic, but I woke up yesterday and I don’t remember anything about the last sixteen years.’ Silence. Faye doesn’t respond. ‘I’m fine, I don’t have a brain tumour or anything, the doctors checked. There’s just this huge chunk of time I know nothing about. I’m told it’s likely to be temporary.’
‘Are you kidding me? What?’ Faye says, her voice now laced with concern. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I did try. I spent most of yesterday having tests.’ I pause. There’s something not sitting right about this conversation. I want to know why Faye had that reaction to me mentioning Zoya. Pulling the phone from my ear, I go back to the WhatsApp group, and flick to the list of members. There are only three: me, Roisin and Faye. What could Zoya have possibly done to get excommunicated from Fairview Forever?
‘Why isn’t Zoya in our group any more?’ I ask Faye, my voice unsteady.
‘Because Zoya is dead, Lucy.’ Faye takes a long, emotional-sounding breath. ‘And now I’m really worried about you. Are you serious with this?’
‘Zoya is dead?’ I ask, covering my mouth with a hand to stop a loud sob from escaping.
‘You are serious. Okay, I’m coming over right now.’
My hands are shaking as I hang up the call. Zoya is dead. Zoya is dead? It had crossed my mind that I might find out one of my parents had died in the last sixteen years, but not my best friend. It can’t be true, there must be some mistake.
Sam finds me crying in the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, sitting down beside me.
‘Zoya.’
‘You remember?’ he asks, his voice laden with both sympathy and hope.
‘No. I spoke to Faye. She’s on her way over.’
‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. I was working out how best to tell you these things. There’s already so much for you to get your head around, without—’
‘How did she die?’ I ask.
Sam takes both my hands in his. ‘A brain aneurysm, eight years ago. It came out of nowhere.’ He reaches to rub one hand in a circular motion on my back, as though he’s soothing a child. My body slumps in the kitchen chair, and I pull my hands away to wipe my eyes.
‘Did you know her?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I did. I got to see why you all loved her.’
I think of the last thing I said to her, the last thing I remember saying to her, our stupid argument about being an estate agent. This can’t be how it ends. There’s a tight pain in my chest, as though my heart is folding in on itself. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. I bite down hard on my bottom lip.
‘Where . . . how . . .’ I grasp for something to ask. ‘What did she end up doing, with her life?’ I ask Sam.
‘She ran a travel company – taking artists abroad to paint. The landscape above the fireplace is one of hers.’
Pushing my chair back, I hurry through to the living room, as though I might find her in there.
‘It’s Rainbow Mountain in Peru,’ Sam says, following me. Looking at it now, I see a small familiar signature in the corner, ZKhan. ‘Her first group expedition outside Europe. You were always her most devoted customer.’
I hate that he knows all this and I don’t.
There’s a knock on the door and I brace myself to answer it. What if Faye has changed? What if I don’t feel close to her any more? What if everything I loved has gone?
But as soon as I open the door, there is Faye, holding a car seat with a sleeping baby inside. She puts it down, then envelops me in a huge hug. After squeezing her back, I pull away to get a proper look at her. There’s a rush of relief when I see she is just the same. Her face is a little more lived in, there’s a hint of grey at her temple, but she is intrinsically still Faye. The same ballerina posture, the same light in her eyes. If anything, the light seems only brighter.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ she asks, picking up the car seat and walking past me, through to the kitchen. ‘You really can’t remember anything?’
I shake my head.
‘I was trying to call you,’ Sam tells Faye, crossing the room to give her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Sorry, Barney strikes again with my phone,’ says Faye, then turns back to me. I’m staring down at her baby now. I can’t believe Faye has a baby. ‘Don’t worry, he sleeps through anything when he’s in his car seat.’
Looking back up at Faye, I blurt out, ‘Tell me about Zoya, what happened?’
‘I’ll go check on the kids,’ Sam says. Faye pats him on the back then rubs her hand down his shoulder. There’s an easy affection between them, as though they’ve known each other for years.
Once Sam’s gone, Faye asks, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Was there anything anyone could have done?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. They said it was a massive bleed, even if she’d got to the hospital sooner . . .’ Faye trails off. ‘We were in France. We all went to Cannes to celebrate her engagement. You, me and Roisin flew home after the weekend. She stayed out there with Tarek, her fiancé. Two days later, he called to tell us what had happened. He could hardly get the words out.’
Faye’s eyes are welling with tears now, and I feel bad for making her relive this.
‘They said it happened so fast, she wouldn’t have known anything about it.’ Faye squeezes my hand, then reaches for her bag. ‘I brought some ginseng and chamomile tea, shall I make us a pot?’ I nod, reassured that Faye still thinks the right tea can fix anything.
‘I don’t know if I really have memory loss,’ I confess quietly, pressing my palms against the kitchen table. ‘It feels like I time-travelled here. I know that sounds nuts, but I made this wish to skip to the good part of my life and then I woke up here.’
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.