Page 33 of The Good Part
Who the helldidshe marry? Alex. I want to know all about Alex. A new ache of loss hits me as I realise it’s not just my own life I’ve missed, it’s all my friends’ lives too. Roisin got married and divorced and is now giving a keynote speech in LA; Faye is married and has a child. Who knows what Zoya is up to? There’s nothing I would be shocked to hear. She could be the CEO of a huge corporation, or a barefoot painter living in the Himalayas.
Lucy
What are the chances of Zoya being able to come?
I don’t know where anyone lives, whether it’s too much to expect them to come to Surrey for the day, or if it would be easier to meet in London. When no one replies, I wonder if they’ve gone to tend to children or in Roisin’s case to the bar, but then my phone flashes:Faye calling. I answer with a whispered, ‘Hello.’
‘That’s not funny,’ Faye snaps down the phone at me. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Say what?’
‘About Zoya.’ Her voice breaks, and I realise I must have made a major misstep.
‘Faye, I didn’t want to say over text, but’ – I opt for the rational explanation – ‘I’m having some memory issues. I know this will sound dramatic, but I woke up yesterday and I don’t remember anything about the last sixteen years.’ Silence. Faye doesn’t respond. ‘I’m fine, I don’t have a brain tumour or anything, the doctors checked. There’s just this huge chunk of time I know nothing about. I’m told it’s likely to be temporary.’
‘Are you kidding me? What?’ Faye says, her voice now laced with concern. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I did try. I spent most of yesterday having tests.’ I pause. There’s something not sitting right about this conversation. I want to know why Faye had that reaction to me mentioning Zoya. Pulling the phone from my ear, I go back to the WhatsApp group, and flick to the list of members. There are only three: me, Roisin and Faye. What could Zoya have possibly done to get excommunicated from Fairview Forever?
‘Why isn’t Zoya in our group any more?’ I ask Faye, my voice unsteady.
‘Because Zoya is dead, Lucy.’ Faye takes a long, emotional-sounding breath. ‘And now I’m really worried about you. Are you serious with this?’
‘Zoya is dead?’ I ask, covering my mouth with a hand to stop a loud sob from escaping.
‘You are serious. Okay, I’m coming over right now.’
My hands are shaking as I hang up the call.Zoya is dead.Zoya is dead?It had crossed my mind that I might find out one of my parents had died in the last sixteen years, but not my best friend. It can’t be true, there must be some mistake.
Sam finds me crying in the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, sitting down beside me.
‘Zoya.’
‘You remember?’ he asks, his voice laden with both sympathy and hope.
‘No. I spoke to Faye. She’s on her way over.’
‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. I was working out how best to tell you these things. There’s already so much for you to get your head around, without—’
‘How did she die?’ I ask.
Sam takes both my hands in his. ‘A brain aneurysm, eight years ago. It came out of nowhere.’ He reaches to rub one hand in a circular motion on my back, as though he’s soothing a child. My body slumps in the kitchen chair, and I pull my hands away to wipe my eyes.
‘Did you know her?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I did. I got to see why you all loved her.’
I think of the last thing I said to her, the last thing Iremembersaying to her, our stupid argument about being an estate agent.This can’t be how it ends.There’s a tight pain in my chest, as though my heart is folding in on itself. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. I bite down hard on my bottom lip.
‘Where... how...’ I grasp for something to ask. ‘What did she end up doing, with her life?’ I ask Sam.
‘She ran a travel company – taking artists abroad to paint. The landscape above the fireplace is one of hers.’
Pushing my chair back, I hurry through to the living room, as though I might find her in there.
‘It’s Rainbow Mountain in Peru,’ Sam says, following me. Looking at it now, I see a small familiar signature in the corner, ZKhan. ‘Her first group expedition outside Europe. You were always her most devoted customer.’
