Page 63 of The Good Part
‘It’s the cliché I couldn’t stand. The cliché of those pants too – a red lacy thong. Who wears a lacy red thong?’
‘I wear lacy red thongs,’ Alex says, pulling down her trousers slightly to reveal a glimpse of red underwear.
‘No, you don’t,’ Faye laughs. ‘That is not a thong.’
‘I wore a red thong on our wedding night!’ Alex says, grinning mischievously at Faye. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Do you remember what pants I was wearing?’ Faye asks, resting her chin on Alex’s shoulder.
‘Yes. Cream silk hipster briefs,’ says Alex, cackling with laughter. Watching them together, I realise I have never seen Faye have this natural, jokey, tactile affection with someone; I realise I have never seen her in love. She looks so at ease, so bubbling with this gentle joy, it gives me a warm, happy feeling just to see it.
‘That’s love. Perfect pants recall,’ Roisin says as Alex and Faye kiss. Watching them, I have a sudden flash – a memory of them on their wedding day, both dressed in white, outside a town hall, Faye with purple flowers in her hair. I must have seen a photograph somewhere on the house tour.
‘Well, I never liked him, if that helps at all,’ I tell Roisin. ‘He had that leg jiggle he was always doing – so annoying. And he was such a coffee snob. I remember you’d spend your weekends hunting out obscure independent coffee shops. Sometimes you just need a Starbucks, Paul.’
‘He was an Aries,’ says Faye, as though this is the worst thing she can think of to say about someone.
‘Thank you both, I appreciate the sentiment,’ says Roisin.
‘Tell me he got some comeuppance for the red thong situation?’ I ask.
‘Nope,’ Roisin shakes her head. ‘They’re getting married next month. She’s got family money, and a mansion in St John’s Wood. They’re happy as fuckin’ clams.’
‘Comeuppance only happens in fiction and religion,’ Alex says.
‘His comeuppance is, he’s a dick head,’ says Faye, and Roisin blows her a kiss across the kitchen island. Faye rarely uses bad language, so it feels very effective when she does.
There’s a pause in conversation while Faye tops up everyone’s glasses, then she says, ‘Imagine if we were actually twenty-six again.’
‘I wouldn’t do my twenties again if you paid me,’ says Roisin. ‘All men under thirty-five are twats, you’re bottom of the pile at work, plus you have to fly everywhere economy.’
‘The rest of us still fly economy, Roisin,’ says Faye, rolling her eyes.
‘I don’t know, I think there’s something glorious about being in your twenties, your whole life is ahead of you and everything’s a possibility,’ says Alex, picking up aubergines and peppers to throw into her lethal-looking peeling and cutting machine.
‘I will give youth alcohol tolerance and skin elasticity, which were both excellent,’ says Roisin. ‘What about you, Lucy, would you go back, if you could?’
‘Yes,’ I say, without even hesitating. ‘I can see the advantages to being this age, but there are things I didn’t expect too. Life just feelssobusy, like there’s never any time. The big stuff seems so much bigger, the sad stuff... well, it’s really fucking sad.’ I pause.
‘You’re right, in some ways, life only gets more complicated,’ says Alex. ‘The older you get, the more you encounter grief, pain and disappointment. Anyone who hasn’t, it is coming for them.’
‘Amen,’ says Roisin. ‘Life is never sorted. It’s just an undulating shit storm of problems and pleasure.’
‘This is all really cheery stuff,’ I say wryly.
‘But’ – Alex holds up a hand, she hasn’t finished – ‘maybe bones need to be broken for you to suck out the marrow of life. We are lucky, we are here, when others are not. I wear the grey in my hair as a badge of honour, the privilege of ageing.’
We all pause for a moment, glasses still in our hands.
‘She’d be so disappointed in us, wouldn’t she, staying in, cooking vegetable risotto, drinking eco wine from a flask,’ Roisin says, tilting her head to one side.
‘She would,’ I say, my voice breaking.
‘To Zoya,’ says Alex, lifting her wine in the air.
‘To Zoya,’ says Faye, meeting my eye. ‘Who we miss, every single day.’
We raise our glasses, making eye contact with one another, a look that says more than words ever could.
