I step out of the gents intent on winding my neck in and run smack bang into Laurie. She doesn’t waste any time.
‘What the hell are you doing, Jack?’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this angry. Her cheeks are flushed pink and her shoulders are braced.
I glance over my shoulder towards the door I’ve just come out of. ‘Pissing.’
Her violet eyes spark with annoyance. ‘Pissing me off, more like.’
‘It’s good to see you too,’ I say, flicking into defensive mode.
‘Don’t,’ she hisses. ‘Don’t you dare do that, Jack O’Mara.’ We’re in an upstairs corridor with people milling around us, and she leans in to make herself heard. ‘What point are you trying to make out there, exactly? That you’re cooler, better, funnier? Is it too much to ask that you just be happy for me?’
I shrug. ‘I would be if he wasn’t a twat.’
‘He isn’t a twat. He’s good and he’s kind and I think he might even love me.’
I hear a sound of derision, and I realize too late that it came from me.
‘What?’ She shakes her head, her eyes over-bright with fury. ‘Is it so improbable that someone might actually love me, Jack?’
‘You barely know him.’
She reels as if I’ve punched her.
‘Who made you the expert all of a sudden?’ she comes back. ‘Who are you to tell me if I can fall in love in a minute or a month or a year?’
We stare each other down, and I realize with a sideways jolt that she isn’t the girl from Delancey Street any more. She’s a woman with a life that I’m by and large no longer a part of.
‘Do you love him?’
She looks away, shaking her head because I have no right to ask her. Especially not like this.
‘He matters to me, Jack,’ she says, softer now, and the vulnerability in her eyes makes me feel like a dick.
‘Okay,’ I say, and I mean it. I wish I could pull her into my arms and put our friendship back where it should be. But something in me knows that hugging Laurie isn’t the right move. Instead I grab her hand and look into her stormy eyes.
‘I’m sorry, really sorry, okay?’ And I feel as if I’m apologizing to her not just for this evening, but for everything that’s gone before. For lying about not seeing her years ago on that damn bus, for kissing her in a snowstorm, for always getting it so fucking wrong.
Finally, after what seems like ten minutes, but is probably about ten seconds, she nods and releases my hand.
I smile. ‘Go back downstairs. I’ll be right behind you.’
She nods again and walks away without glancing back.
Laurie has grown up when I wasn’t looking. It’s time for me to do the same.
14 May
Laurie
‘Pick up, Oscar, pick up,’ I murmur, reading and rereading the letter in my hand as I listen to his mobile ringing out. This is the voicemail service for … Dammit! I hang up and try again, and once more I get that bloody annoying robot woman telling me that she’s terribly sorry but Oscar Ogilvy-Black can’t come to the phone right now. I stand in my parents’ quiet hallway, my fingers absently wrapped round my purple pendant. I wore it for the job interview last week and haven’t taken it off since in an attempt to summon good luck. And it worked! Desperate to tell someone my good news, I scroll through to Sarah’s number instead. I don’t try to call her because she invariably can’t answer at work, so I compromise and send her a text.
Guess who’s FINALLY got herself a proper job? Me! Brace yourself,
Sar, I’m coming back to London!
I press send, and it’s less than thirty seconds before my mobile vibrates.
HANG ON! Going to loos to call you. DON’T call anyone else!
Right on cue, my phone starts to ring. It’s another thirty seconds before I can speak, because she’s shrieking and clapping; I can see her in my mind’s eye right now, locked in the cubicle doing her happy dance, bemused colleagues listening outside.
‘Come on then, I want to know everything!’ she says, and at last I can officially tell someone my news.
‘It’s that job I told you about, you know, the one on the teen magazine?’
‘You mean the Agony Aunt job?’
‘Yes! That one! As of three weeks’ time, I’m going to be the woman that our nation’s teenagers turn to for advice on hair straighteners, spots and dodgy dates!’ I’m laughing, borderline hysterical at the prospect of working on a magazine at long last. It won’t be all of the nation’s teenagers of course, just the small percentage who read the not-all-that-prolific magazine, but it’s something, isn’t it, it’s real. It’s my much-longed-for stepping stone into the next part of my life. I wasn’t at all sure I’d be offered the position. The interview wasn’t particularly conventional, two women who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one firing make-believe problems at me to see what answers I might give.
‘Emma has an awful spot the night before her prom,’ one had said, pointing at her own unblemished chin for emphasis. ‘What would you suggest?’
Luckily, even at the interview stage, Sarah was my saviour; our Delancey Street bathroom shelf came straight to mind. ‘Sudocrem. They sell that stuff for babies’ bums, but it’s also a secret weapon for spots.’
They’d both written that down really fast; I got the distinct impression they’d be running out to the chemist as soon as the interview was over.
‘A run in your tights on an important day?’ the other interviewer asked me, her eyes narrowed.
‘Clear nail varnish to stop it spreading,’ I’d shot straight back. Standard sixth-former tip. By the time they’d finished I felt as if I’d been grilled by the Stasi rather than for a prospective job with a magazine.
‘Christ, I hope no one asks you for advice about false eyelashes,’ Sarah says. ‘You’ll get sued.’
‘Tell me about it. I’m relying on you to be my main research source.’
‘Well, you know me, I’m the font of all knowledge on all things false and glittery!’ She sounds giddy. ‘I can’t believe you’re finally coming back, Lu, it’s the best news I’ve had all year. Wait till I tell Jack!’
She rings off, and I sit on the bottom step of the stairs and grin like a loon. Is ten in the morning too early to drink gin?
9 June
Laurie
Oscar reaches behind the sofa and pulls out a ribboned box. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
He lays the large square gift on my knees and I shoot him a surprised look. ‘Oscar, I’ve only just had my birthday.’
‘I know. This is different. It’s for the new job.’
It’s Saturday night, we’re full of Chinese takeaway and halfway down a bottle of champagne, and come Monday, I’ll be gainfully employed by Skylark, the publishing house who put out GlitterGirl magazine.
‘Open it then,’ he says, nudging the box. ‘You can change it if it’s not right.’
I look from his excited eyes to the box, and slowly tug the lime-green ribbons open. He’s already made a big fuss of me on my birthday, so this feels like real extravagance. I shake the lid of the smart gift box free and fold back the striped tissue paper to admire the black Kate Spade tote inside.