When I finally reach Southwark, my pace slows. I must be too late. I must be. The rough sketch of this life is being rapidly painted in, making this my reality, this my present. My feet drag, heavier with every step.
At the bus stop ahead of me I see three women laughing. They are in their twenties, all with matching fringes and heavy eyeliner.
‘Becca, you gotta come tonight. It’s the last night they’re playing,’ says one girl.
‘I’m too tired, look at these bags under my eyes. I need sleep,’ says another.
I feel like telling this girl she doesn’t know the meaning of the word tired, not until she’s lived off three hours’ sleep for months on end, dealing with a baby with reflux and a boy with night terrors. She doesn’t know the meaning of eye bags either. She is beautiful, so fucking beautiful, but I can see from her posture she doesn’t feel it, not fully.
‘You can sleep when you’re dead,’ says the third girl, pulling her friend into a messy, long-limbed hug.
That’s what Zoya used to say.
Zoya.
I start to run.
The shop is empty, as always, and I call out ‘Hello!’ as I run through the door. ‘I’m back.’ I pull back the beaded curtain into the back room, but no one is here, though the door was open – the shop unlocked. Whether the Scottish lady is here or not, I have to try, have to know if I’m out of time.
My hands shake as I look for the coins I put in my purse especially. I slot them into the machine, hold onto its sides and say aloud this time, ‘I want to go back. Please, I want to go back. I want to live every messy day – the good ones and the ones that suck – where I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know where I’m going or how to get there. I want to go on all the shit dates, because then, when I meet the right person I will know how special he is. And when I find him, I don’t want to miss a minute. I don’t want to miss making him laugh for the first time, I don’t want to miss discovering that his eyes look green rather than blue when he wakes up in the morning. I don’t want to miss our first kiss, our first fight, our first anything. And I’ll take the heartache and the horror and the losses too, the fear of not knowing how it will all come to be, because that is life, in all its glorious, messy Technicolor. And I know I am so lucky to be here, and that every breath I take is the good part.’ I shake the machine, because nothing is happening, the lettering stays stubbornly dark. ‘Let me live my life. Please, let me live my life.’
Then I’m crying, because it isn’t working, and I sink to the floor, my head against the machine. Physically and emotionally spent, because I know now, too late, that even if I remember everything, remembering is not the same as living.
Just as I’m about to accept that the window of opportunity to choose has closed, I feel a clunk, and look up to see the old woman kicking the machine.
‘Sometimes it needs a wee nudge,’ she says. ‘Like me, it’s rather old.’
The machine bursts into life, illuminating like a Christmas tree. Cogs whir, and I see the words pressed onto the copper coin.
Your wish is granted.
Chapter 35
Today
I wake to the smell of damp. Groaning at my alarm, I stare up at the yellow stain on the ceiling. What are the chances of Mr Finkley ever paying to get that fixed, or our lazy landlord organising for it to be dried out and replastered? Even though the stain is larger, and the smell is considerably worse, for some reason, this morning, the state of my room doesn’t upset me as much as it usually does. As my dad always says, ‘Worse things happen at sea, love.’ What these terrible things happening at sea are, I’m not sure, but I imagine interminable dampness is one of them.
Getting out of bed, I draw the curtains, yank open the window and inhale the sights, scents and sounds of glorious, sunny London. The cars beeping, the birds tweeting, the smell of the kebab shop’s rubbish bins from three doors down. I’m going to wear a proper shirt to work today. Even though yesterday was a disaster – what with Croissant Gate and being told my promotion means nothing and that I’m basically still the runner – if I keep on showing up, working hard and looking extra professional, maybe one day I will be trusted with more.
In the kitchen, Emily and Julian are having breakfast.
‘Sorry, I think this is yours. I’ll buy you more,’ says Julian, his spoon full of my cereal freezing in mid-air.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, picking up the box to pour myself a bowl but finding it empty. ‘Oh.’
‘I’ll make you some toast,’ says Emily, who is also eating my cereal. ‘Sorry.’
At the end of the corridor, I hear music coming from Zoya’s room. ‘Is Zoya still here? I thought she had an early viewing.’
‘They cancelled last minute,’ Julian says, then shakes his finger and hunches over as though he’s an old man. ‘Young people today, no sense of commitment.’
Walking down the corridor, I knock quietly on Zoya’s door.
‘Come in!’ she calls, and I push the door open but hover in the doorway. Even though I only saw her yesterday, I feel this distance between us – as though it’s been far longer.
‘Hey. I thought you’d be long gone,’ I say.
‘The viewing was cancelled so . . .’ She trails off, and we stand in awkward silence for a moment.
‘Zoya, I’m so sorry—’ I launch in, but she stops me.
‘No, no, I’m sorry. I overreacted, I shouldn’t have been so prickly. I know it must look to you like I’m selling out, but it’s not just about the money. Art school wasn’t for me, Luce.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s not like I’m never going to draw again. This way I’ll be able to see the world, paint the world.’ She grins, walking across the room to pull me into a hug. ‘Surprisingly, I quite like being an estate agent, but I know you would hate it. You should stick to TV, and I will listen to you whinge about it, because that’s what friends do.’ She pauses before saying, ‘I think maybe I got upset because I’m slightly jealous. I wish I had your clarity about where I want to be. Maybe I’m too focused on having fun, rather than making plans for where I want to end up.’
‘I think you’re doing just fine. I love you,’ I say, squeezing her tight. She gives me a suspicious look. ‘What? I don’t think we say it enough. I love you. My life wouldn’t be as good without you in it.’
‘So cheesy. But fine. I fucking love you too.’ She leans in to give me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek, which I wipe away in mock disgust.
Back in the kitchen, I put the kettle on to make tea for the four of us.
‘Right, while we’re all here, quick flat meeting,’ I say, clapping my hands. ‘I’ve been thinking, and I propose we have a kitty for basics – put a little cash in each week for the stuff we all use, like cereal, milk and loo roll.’
‘I’d be up for that,’ says Julian.