‘You had an eleven-hour flight from LA and that’s the best you could come up with?’ I say, pulling Roisin into a tight hug.
‘Eleven? It’s only six now. Wow, you do have a lot to catch up on. You know they’ve worked out the Earth is round now, right?’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Come on then, let’s have a drink and hear all about this latest caper of yours,’ she says.
We gather around the kitchen island while Alex cooks, Faye fixes more drinks and I fill them all in on the latest episode of ‘Lucy tries to be a grown-up’. Roisin covers her face at all the right moments in my story about the disastrous pitch meeting.
‘I can’t believe you thought you could just blag it,’ she says.
‘I thought I might be good at it,’ I say despondently.
‘You are good at it,’ says Faye, kindly.
‘But it took you years to gain that level of expertise,’ says Roisin. ‘It’s not something that happened overnight.’
My eyes dart instinctively to the door, and I realise I am waiting for Zoya to walk in. This is the moment when she would arrive, twenty minutes late and full of excuses as to why the train was delayed or the bus went the wrong way. My stomach clenches, and I shift my chair so I can’t watch the door. These last few days, it’s been easy to imagine Zoya is simply absent or busy, but being in a room with the others, I can see the gaping hole where she should be.
‘You don’t think you should just tell your colleagues the truth?’ Faye asks, jerking me back to the present.
‘I tried, but Michael started talking about perimenopausal brain fog and it threw me off. Besides, when I tell people the truth they look at me with pitying eyes, like the ones you’re giving me now.’
‘Sorry,’ says Faye, trying to look less sympathetic. ‘Are we even old enough to be perimenopausal?’
‘Yes, no, maybe. It’s a broad spectrum,’ says Alex. ‘It certainly doesn’t cause you to forget half your life. How many years did you say you’d forgotten?’ she asks, as she feeds onions into a round machine that instantly peels and dices them.
‘Sixteen,’ I say, tapping my glass. ‘And I know I’ve forgotten, people keep telling me that I’ve forgotten, but it feels like I skipped those years. I’m still twenty-six inside and I’ve woken up living someone else’s life.’
‘In my head, I’m still sixteen,’ Roisin says, pouting her lips and raising one eyebrow at me.
‘Do you have to joke about everything?’ says Faye, tilting her head in disapproval.
‘Well, I’m sorry. It must be confusing and distressing for you and for Sam.’ Alex leans over to put an arm around me. ‘Mainly I’m the victim in all this though because you don’t even remember me.’ She lets out a purposefully dramatic wail.
‘Okay, joking aside, how are you doing, Luce?’ Roisin asks.
‘Well, mainly, I feel tired all the time. But I don’t know if that’s because I’m ill, or because that’s what it feels like to be forty-two.’
‘It’s because you’ve got an eighteen-month-old baby,’ says Faye.
‘Plus, I’m too scared to look at the news in case, beyond my little bubble, it’s a dystopian hellscape out there,’ I go on, ‘and my nanny thinks I need a facelift.’
‘Do not go in Snip ’n’ Tuck,’ Roisin says, leaning forward and clutching my arm. ‘They gave me the worst haircut of my life.’
‘If it makes you feel better, there’s no hellscape,’ says Alex. ‘Well, no more than usual.’
‘Come on, Lucy, it can’t all be bad. Of all the people to wake up and be married to, you could do worse than Sam, right? He’s pretty feckin’ hot,’ says Roisin, and I give her a wry smile.
‘Imagine if Faye forgot the last sixteen years?’ says Alex. ‘She’d need to come out to herself all over again.’
‘Please no, the drama the first time around.’ Roisin sighs and Faye gives her a playful pinch. ‘It would be worse for me. If I forgot the last sixteen years, I’d still be in love with Paul, I’d have forgotten he was a scumbag,’ says Roisin, rolling her eyes.
‘Can I ask what happened?’ I say. ‘Or is it too much to dredge up?’
‘No, dredge away. Life fucks you over, is what happened,’ she says, taking a swig of wine. ‘You fall in love, have the Instagram wedding, work your arse off, get promoted, build a beautiful home, but your husband gets jealous of your success and the magic goes. Then one morning you find another woman’s underwear in the overnight bag he took on a work trip.’
‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ I say, reaching out a hand to her on the counter, but she pulls it away, toying with an earring.
‘It’s the cliché I couldn’t stand. The cliché of those pants too – a red lacy thong. Who wears a lacy red thong?’
‘I wear lacy red thongs,’ Alex says, pulling down her trousers slightly to reveal a glimpse of red underwear.
‘No, you don’t,’ Faye laughs. ‘That is not a thong.’
‘I wore a red thong on our wedding night!’ Alex says, grinning mischievously at Faye. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Do you remember what pants I was wearing?’ Faye asks, resting her chin on Alex’s shoulder.
‘Yes. Cream silk hipster briefs,’ says Alex, cackling with laughter. Watching them together, I realise I have never seen Faye have this natural, jokey, tactile affection with someone; I realise I have never seen her in love. She looks so at ease, so bubbling with this gentle joy, it gives me a warm, happy feeling just to see it.
‘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.’