Page 15 of The Good Part
‘Look, Em, this is going to sound insane, but I think I’ve travelled through time. Either that or I’m having a full-on psychotic delusion. I need to get into the flat.’
‘Right,’ she says slowly, in that way people talk to children or men wielding knives.
‘Yesterday we were flatmates in Vauxhall, berating old Stinkley upstairs. You’d just slept with someone called Ezekiel or Zebadiah, something like that. Do you remember?’
Emily makes a strained ‘hmmm’ sound.
‘Then today, I woke up in some random house in Surrey with a husband and two children.’ I say it with a little laugh, to illustrate how crazy I know I must sound.
‘Right,’ she says again, then after another long pause. ‘Have you taken drugs, Lucy? Where are you?’
‘No, not that I know of, and I’m outside the flat, our flat. I just told you.’
There’s a beep on the screen; she’s requested to switch our call to video. I click accept and Emily’s face fills the screen, only she looks nothing like the Emily I know. Her red dreadlocks are gone, replaced by a sleek bob. Instead of her usual dungarees, she appears to be wearing a collared shirt and a grey suit jacket. She looks like Shiv fromSuccession.
‘Emily?’ is all I can say.
‘I needed to look you in the eye, to see if you were joking or high,’ she says, and as she holds my gaze, her face softens. ‘If it’s neither of those things, then it sounds like you need to see a doctor, Lucy. Have you had a knock to the head?’
‘I don’t think so, but maybe.’ I pause. ‘I know it sounds nuts, but it feels more like an intensely realistic hallucination... or... or time travel.’
‘Right,’ she says again, her voice loaded with scepticism.
‘You look so different from how I remember,’ I say. ‘What happened to your dreadlocks?’
The hint of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. ‘They went a long time ago.’ She tucks a loose strand of red hair behind an ear.
‘And are you still lino printing?’
Emily closes her eyes briefly, as though indulging me. Then she says, ‘I work in executive search now. I live in Kent, I have three children.’
‘Oh, wow, that’s crazy.’
‘Listen Lucy, I’m sorry, but if you’re serious, I think you really do need to see a doctor.’ She pauses. ‘Do you have a history of mental health issues? Has this happened to you before?’
‘I don’t need a doctor, Em, I just need a friend.’
‘Lucy, we haven’t spoken in fifteen years.’
‘We haven’t?’
‘No. We didn’t stay in touch when we gave up the flat.’ She drops her gaze.
‘What about Julian? Where’s he?’
‘I think he lives in America now.’ She bites her lip. ‘Look, is there someone I can call for you? Family? Your GP? One of your old school friends? I’m about to go into a meeting, but I feel a duty of care now that you’ve called me.’
Duty of care?She sounds nothing like the Emily I know, and I don’t want her calling people, telling them I’m on drugs or that I’ve lost my mind.
‘No, no, thank you. I’m fine, look I’m probably just hungover. I was passing the flat and thought of you and...’And what? I thought she might still live here? I thought she might be able to help me?‘Just a bad case of nostalgia, I guess. I’ll be fine. Good luck with your meeting.’
Hanging up the phone I lean my shoulder against the front door. Of all the unbelievable things I’ve been faced with this morning, that hippy-dippy Emily now wears a suit and works in executive search is one of the least fathomable. A feeling of intense loneliness crawls over me. Some-thing about Emily’s reaction – she was never going to believe me. Whowouldbelieve me? If I put myself in her shoes and someone called me with this story, wouldn’t I give them the exact advice Emily just gave me – to see a doctor? Maybe I am ill. I open my phone again, clutching it like a lifeline.
Fit Fun Fabulous Alert – Your stress levels are highly elevated. Why not engage in a leisurely walk?
‘Fuck off,’ I tell the screen, deleting the app. I think about calling my parents, but as I scroll to ‘Home’ a new queasiness sinks in. If I’m really in my forties, both my parents would be in their seventies by now. What if they don’t answer? What if...
As I’m holding it, my phone flashes in my hand. ‘Office’ is calling again, and I find myself answering it, if only to distract myself from the horrible thought that one or both of my parents might be dead.
