‘How perfect would it be if we could swap Emily and Julian for Faye and Roisin,’ I say quietly, meeting Zoya’s eye in the mirror.
‘Roisin wouldn’t be able to handle the lack of en suites,’ Zoya says, laughing. ‘And Faye would probably make it her mission to tackle Stinkley’s antisocial behaviour with reflexology and herbal tea.’
‘Maybe we should set them up,’ I say, and we both burst out laughing.
Zoya’s room used to look like mine, posters Blu-Tacked to the walls and a clothes rail held together with duct tape. But now, looking around, I realise something has changed. Her room looks like the ‘after’ photo in an Instagram makeover reel. She has procured several lamps, a blue velvet armchair, scatter cushions, matching bed linen, framed art on the wall, and the biggest source of my envy – a dark, wooden bookcase that’s not even IKEA. So this is what a decent salary looks like.
‘You’ve made it so nice in here,’ I tell her, trying not to sound jealous.
‘Thanks, you can come and sit in my reading chair whenever you like.’
Zoya used to be a penniless creative like me, but then a few months ago, she dropped out of art school and got herself a job as an estate agent. It seems a shame because she’s an incredible artist, but then again, that bookcase is a work of art.
Squeezing my shoulder, she says, ‘There, done,’ as she puts the final pin in my hair.
‘Thank you. I don’t know how you do that.’
In the corridor, I hear a door open. ‘Bathroom’s free,’ Em yells as her door closes. I dash back into the hall, only to see Betty sneaking in there before me.
‘Sorry, just need to grab my bones,’ she yells, and I turn back to Zoya and make a murderous expression. Surprisingly she doesn’t laugh, but only says, ‘Luce, I need to talk to you about something. Walk to the tube with me?’
‘Sure. I don’t have time to shower now anyway. Give me five minutes to get dressed.’
My room feels even more depressing after being in Zoya’s. No one wants to live in the ‘before’ photo. My parents say I’m ‘living like a student’， but it’s actually worse than that. As a student I had furniture and a dry bed, I had access to a student loan and subsidised accommodation. Now, after tax, rent, bills, loan repayments and my travel card, I’m left with thirty-five pounds a week for everything else: food, booze, clothes, tampons, you name it. If I could only get promoted to researcher, I’d earn an extra eighty pounds a week. With that kind of money, I could eat, I could buy a nice big bookshelf, I could go back to using normal tampons rather than the two-sizes-too-big moon cup I got free in a party bag at my cousin’s hen do. But there is no point fantasising about such heady luxuries.
After passing a wet wipe beneath each arm and rolling on some deodorant, I throw on a pair of black jeans and a fitted T-shirt, then apply a lick of mascara and a dab of blusher. It’s enough to make me look passably fresh and professional. If only my life could be so easily rectified.
Zoya is waiting for me by the front door. In the hallway, she takes an exaggerated gulp of clean air, which makes me smile. Once we’re down the stairs and out in the street she says, ‘So, I wanted to tell you first.’
‘What?’ I say, immediately worried.
‘I think I’m going to move out, Luce.’
‘What?’ I can’t hide the horror in my voice. ‘Why?’
‘Because we live in a dump, and I’m earning money now.’ Her face contorts into an apologetic wince. ‘You know I adore living with you, but I can’t handle the others any more. Julian has had wet washing sitting in the machine for three days. Three days.’
‘So, you’re abandoning me?’ I say, making loud cartoon sobs to hide the fact that I genuinely feel like crying.
‘Oh come on, you can take my room, it’s drier than yours.’
‘I can’t afford your room. It’s twenty quid a week more than mine.’
‘I’ll sub you the difference.’
‘No, don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. I’m happy for you, genuinely.’ I try to swallow my intense misery. This is not about me – Zoya’s worked hard, she deserves this.
‘Thanks, chick.’ Zoya looks relieved. ‘And you know you can hang out at my new place whenever you like. I promise there will always be loo roll and never any dead cows in the bath.’
‘Maybe a hot Frenchman will take your room,’ I say, forcing a goofy smile, while inside I’m struggling to quell a rising tide of panic. I’m being left behind. The flat will be unbearable. Who will I crawl into bed with on a Sunday morning and watch reruns of Friends with? Who will I swap books with? Who will I complain about the others to? Who will care enough to dig me out of the rubble if the ceiling really does fall down?
When we reach the turnstile at the underground station, I realise with a sinking feeling that my weekly travel card has expired, and I don’t get paid until tomorrow. I don’t want Zoya to know how broke I am, so I try swiping my bank card, offering up a silent prayer to the gods of the turnstiles. Luckily, they let me through.
The board tells us there’s a train in one minute.
‘Come on, let’s run,’ I say, grabbing Zoya’s hand.
‘Can’t we just get the next one?’ she groans. ‘You’re always rushing me.’
We make the train and luxury of luxuries, we even get seats, though there is a woman and her annoyingly loud baby sitting right next to us.
‘So, are we all meeting for a drink after work to celebrate your new job?’ Zoya asks.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I could probably use an early night.’
When the train pulls into Oxford Circus, my stop, Zoya gets up to give me a hug. Looking around the carriage, I notice all eyes are on her. At a guess, all the men are wondering what she looks like naked, while all the women are wondering what product she uses to get her hair that bouncy and shiny. （The answer is a mayonnaise hair mask once a week.） As I get off the train, she sticks her head out of the carriage and hollers down the crowded platform.
‘You can sleep when you’re dead, Lucy Young. We’re celebrating your promotion, end of. Drinks on me.’
I can’t help grinning as I turn to walk away.
Chapter 2
As I’m walking from Oxford Circus towards Soho, my stomach rumbles and I realise in all the commotion of the morning, I failed to have breakfast. My route to work takes me past numerous delicious-smelling cafés and eye-wateringly expensive clothes shops. I allow myself a moment’s pause in front of a minimalist shop window, gazing up at a slim-cut red suit. It is feminine and powerful, fashionable yet timeless. One day, Lucy, one day.
As I’m daydreaming about wool-blend blazers, my phone rings. ‘Home’ is calling.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say as I answer. It is always Dad. Mum will be in the background, shouting out things to say. They haven’t got to grips with the concept of speakerphone yet.
‘We know you’re busy, we just wanted to wish you luck on your first day.’
‘Tell her good luck!’ I hear Mum shout. ‘Ask her what she’s wearing.’