Page 94 of Five Things I Love About You

‘You went to Newcastle.’

‘It’s not exactly the same though, is it? Besides, this is an entirely different situation.’

Kirstie makes both Sophie and I jump by banging her hand down onto the coffee table. We turn to look at her.

‘You’re making me cross,’ she says, pointing her finger at me.

‘Me?’

She nods her head. ‘Of course you. You’ve been on your own for so long now?—’

‘I was with Darren before I left London and I’ve been with Jay for the last few months?—’

‘—apart from wildly inappropriate men, and Sophie and I have spentyearswatching you tie yourself in knots looking for Mr Right. Now he’s right in front of your face and has already told you he really likes you, and you’re not even going to try and make it work because you’re too proud to send atext?’ She throws a look at Sophie. ‘Back me up here, Soph. You agree with me, don’t you?’

Sophie squirms, but eventually nods her head. ‘I do actually. Sorry, Miranda.’

A silence hangs in the air for a moment and I wait, wondering whether either of them are going to say anything else. But then Kirstie folds her arms across her chest and slumps back on the sofa and it’s clear she’s finished her point.

‘I—’ I start, but I don’t really know what to say. Because she’s right, really, isn’t she? Matt is my Mr Right, and we do have lots in common, and actually not having him in my life these last few months has left me with an empty feeling right in the pit of my belly that nothing else seems to fill. I long to hear his voice again with every atom in my body.

And yet.

‘I just can’t,’ I say. ‘I’ve only just ended things with Jay.’

‘Maybe, but he was never right for you. I saw it immediately.’

‘He was lovely though. And anyway, I still need time to lick my wounds before I can even think about being with someone else.’

Then before either of them can say anything else, I stand. ‘I’m really tired and I’m feeling really sad about Jay and I really, really don’t want to talk about this any more. Please.’ Then I walk out of the room.

30

I love being back in London. I love the familiarity of the streets where I live; the fact that I don’t need to type everything into Google Maps every time I want to leave the house. I love the hustle and bustle of Crouch End Broadway, the peace and tranquillity and green space of Alexandra Park, the constant hum of background noise even when it’s quiet; I love the variety of faces and people, the fact that anything you want to do is right on your doorstep – I even love the ridiculous amount of traffic and the impatient drivers that used to drive me mad. Because all of it is home.

Over Christmas, after helping me move back into my house, Kirstie, Sophie and I go to our usual haunts, the pubs and bars that we’ve been going to for most of our adult lives, the places that have seen us through early motherhood, the teen years (the kids’, not ours), through heartbreak and illness and divorces, through falling in love, holiday planning and anything else life has thrown at us over the twenty-five-plus years of our friendship.

I love the bones of these women, these people who know me better than anyone else in the world, including my children and my ex-husband. Being with them makes my heart sing, and slowly the heartache and difficulties of the last few months begin to fade into the background.

Their kids come back for Christmas – mine are stuck out in Australia and New Zealand for a few more months – and we spend days on end sitting around laughing and eating and drinking, just like old times. It feels like a little bubble of happiness. Like life has never changed. Like Newcastle, and Matt and Gladys, Jay and Alan, never happened (except for the occasional text from Jay asking if I’d consider going back, telling me he was falling in love with me, and generally making me feel terrible).

As Christmas turns to the drudgery of January, and life settles back into an old familiar routine – albeit one without a permanent job and therefore even less money than before thanks to the unpredictability of supply teaching – a sort of malaise begins to set in.

At first I just put it down to the January blues. But as the weeks pass and the weather stays grey, my mood still doesn’t brighten. The texts Jay keeps sending me aren’t helping either – messages begging me to go back, to let him explain, to tell me that he misses me. All they do is make me feel worse.

Because they’re from the wrong man.

In the first week of February, the girls finally stage an intervention – at least that’s what Kirstie calls it as they bundle into my hallway, removing their coats and boots and scarves and dumping dripping umbrellas in the cloakroom sink. The air steams with damp clothing as they march me through to the kitchen and order me to sit at the table. I do as I’m told, then they sit opposite me, like some sort of inquisition.

‘What’s going on?’ I say, puzzled.

Kirstie lays her hands flat on the table and says, ‘We’re sending you to Canada.’

I stare at her, then look at Sophie’s face, and back to Kirstie, waiting to see who laughs first. But neither of them crack so I smile instead, and roll my eyes.

‘You two are hilarious.’ I fold my arms and sit back in my chair. ‘What are you really doing here?’

‘Sorry, M. But that really is what we’re doing here.’ Sophie’s voice is quiet, and I look at her for a hint that she’s having me on. But there’s only worry in her pretty face, and my stomach drops.

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