‘Makes sense.’ Emily shrugs, as she sniffs the milk she’s about to add to her tea.
‘Also, not to be boring, but can we agree not to use the bath for anything but washing? I don’t want to find more bones being stewed or clothes being tie-dyed in there.’
‘Agreed,’ says Julian. ‘Em, that last dye job you did turned me purple. Betty thought I had some exotic skin disease.’
‘Good. That’s settled then,’ I say. ‘It’s payday, so I will buy loo roll and cereal for us all on my way home.’
‘And since we’re having a flat meeting, I have some news,’ Zoya says. She looks to me and I nod. ‘I’m going to move out.’
‘Oh no!’ Julian and Emily say in unison.
‘Don’t break up the four musketeers!’ says Julian. ‘We’d have to change the ZoLu JuEm sign on our buzzer, I love that sign.’
‘Who will provide the soundtrack to our mornings? The vodka to our evenings?’ Emily whines.
‘I know, I know, it’s just time for a change.’
‘She’s a big-shot grown-up now, and I couldn’t be prouder of her,’ I say, reaching over to muss up Zoya’s hair.
‘I will still hang out here all the time,’ Zoya says. ‘And I will still bring excellent playlists and half-decent vodka.’
‘I hate interviewing new flatmates,’ Julian groans.
‘Well, we might not need one immediately,’ I tell him. ‘I was thinking, until the damp situation in my room has been fixed, we might be due a rent reduction because it’s uninhabitable.’
‘What’s got into you this morning? You’re being all Erin Brockovichy. Did you listen to a motivational podcast in your sleep or something?’ Emily asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I just woke up feeling good and decided I want to make a few changes.’
‘Be the change you want to see in the bathroom,’ says Zoya.
‘Exactly.’
Before I leave for work, I pick up the two dying plants in my room and tell them, ‘I’m sorry. I tried, but I’m just not a plant person. You’re going to have to go.’ Maybe one day, if I ever have a garden, I will try to be my father’s green-fingered daughter, but for now, there is no shame in admitting defeat.
Outside by the bins, I find Mr Finkley stuffing a rusty animal cage into an already overflowing green bin.
‘Oh, no room for these?’ I ask, disappointed.
‘No. You’d need to black bag them anyway,’ he says, pausing to inspect the plants in my hand. ‘Why are you throwing them away?’
‘I’m not very good at caring for them. They look sad and it was making me feel depressed to look at them.’
‘I called someone about my bathroom floor, they’re coming tomorrow.’ Mr Finkley says, and I can see he’s trying to be amenable.
‘Thank you, much appreciated.’ Then, noticing the curious way he’s eyeing up the plants, I say, ‘Would you like these? Maybe you’ll have better luck with them, you might be able to revive them.’
‘Really?’ His eyes light up.
‘Of course, I was only going to throw them away anyway.’
He takes them from me, hugging one in each arm. ‘You can come and visit them whenever you like,’ he offers. ‘You know, if you ever miss them.’
Yeah, right. ‘I’m good, but thanks.’ I turn to go, then pause, and say, ‘And Mr Finkley, thank you for trying to sort the bathroom, and I’m sorry for shouting at you yesterday. I was just really tired.’
He nods, then whispers, ‘Would you like a drink? I think you would.’
As I’m trying to think of a polite way to decline, I realise he is not talking to me, he’s talking to the plants, so I run to catch up with Zoya.
‘Telling the others went better than expected,’ she says on our walk to the tube, ‘and you’re sure you really don’t mind me moving out?’
‘Zoya, I will you miss you terribly, but things can’t stay the same forever.’ I pause. ‘Please tell me you’ll stay south of the river, though?’
She holds my hand and swings it back and forth. ‘Of course I’ll stay south of the river. So, tell me what happened last night. How come you got in so late, and why is there a spring in your step? Did you meet someone?’
‘It was a weird night, horrible really. I was miserable after you left, I drank too much, walked all the way home, found myself on a LondonLove date with this flasher called Dale, oh, and then I met this crazy lady in a newsagent’s, I have to tell you all about her. But what’s strange is that despite my hideous evening, I woke up this morning with this feeling that all was right with the world. Do you ever get that?’
‘I do – whenever you start a story with “I have to tell you about this crazy lady I met . . .” ’
Flush from payday, I treat us both to a coffee from the café near the tube. A song comes on the radio as we’re waiting at the counter; I’ve never heard it before but something about it grabs my attention.
‘What’s this song?’
‘The new Lex single, “The Promise of You”,’ says Zoya. ‘Radio One are obsessed, why?’
‘Déjà vu. Do you ever get that with songs?’
‘All the time. What are you going to do about Melanie?’ Zoya asks.
‘I’ll give it to the end of the series, then start sending my CV out – apply for some proper junior researcher jobs. I think I’ve been too set on staying at When TV, on proving myself to Melanie.’
‘Stockholm syndrome,’ Zoya says, nodding. ‘Hey, there’s a train in four minutes, do you want to run for it?’ she asks, checking the transport app on her phone.
‘No, let’s get the next one. I’m not in a rush.’
‘Good. I want to hear all the details of your adventure last night.’
So we walk slowly, sipping our coffees, soaking in the spring sunshine, and I tell Zoya all about Dale, about walking home with no shoes and going a bit nuts in a newsagent’s making a crazy wish on a wishing machine, which of course did not come true.
Epilogue
Five Years Later
‘Where to next?’ asks Faye as the four of us fall out of a bar on Upper Street.
‘You decide, you’re the birthday girl,’ Zoya says, draping an arm around my shoulder. ‘This gold minidress is really working for you by the way. We should go out out, we should go dancing.’
‘Yes! Let’s pick up some men,’ Roisin shouts into the grey night sky.
‘Don’t let your husband hear you say that,’ says Faye.
‘Not for me, for you. I can be your wing woman.’
‘Well, Zoya is all loved up, I’m sworn off men for the moment, so that only leaves Lucy,’ says Faye.
‘I’m swearing off men too,’ I tell them. ‘Thirty-one is going to be my year of abstinence and sobriety. All the time I would have spent dating and drinking, I’m going to spend reading books and trying new hobbies. I might become amazing at macramé, or roller-skating – get ready for a whole new me.’
‘Well, I’m here for your new me, your old me, whatever me you want to be,’ says Faye, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
‘Abstinence and sobriety, fuck off, Lucy!’ Roisin laughs into the sky.