Page 4 of The Good Part
‘I’ll sub you the difference.’
‘No, don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. I’m happy for you, genuinely.’ I try to swallow my intense misery. This is not about me – Zoya’s worked hard, she deserves this.
‘Thanks, chick.’ Zoya looks relieved. ‘And you know you can hang out at my new place whenever you like. I promise there will always be loo roll and never any dead cows in the bath.’
‘Maybe a hot Frenchman will take your room,’ I say, forcing a goofy smile, while inside I’m struggling to quell a rising tide of panic.I’m being left behind.The flat will be unbearable.Who will I crawl into bed with on a Sunday morning and watch reruns ofFriendswith? Who will I swap books with? Who will I complain about the others to? Who will care enough to dig me out of the rubble if the ceiling really does fall down?
When we reach the turnstile at the underground station, I realise with a sinking feeling that my weekly travel card has expired, and I don’t get paid until tomorrow. I don’t want Zoya to know how broke I am, so I try swiping my bank card, offering up a silent prayer to the gods of the turnstiles. Luckily, they let me through.
The board tells us there’s a train in one minute.
‘Come on, let’s run,’ I say, grabbing Zoya’s hand.
‘Can’t we just get the next one?’ she groans. ‘You’re always rushing me.’
We make the train and luxury of luxuries, we even get seats, though there is a woman and her annoyingly loud baby sitting right next to us.
‘So, are we all meeting for a drink after work to celebrate your new job?’ Zoya asks.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I could probably use an early night.’
When the train pulls into Oxford Circus, my stop, Zoya gets up to give me a hug. Looking around the carriage, I notice all eyes are on her. At a guess, all the men are wondering what she looks like naked, while all the women are wondering what product she uses to get her hair that bouncy and shiny. (The answer is a mayonnaise hair mask once a week.) As I get off the train, she sticks her head out of the carriage and hollers down the crowded platform.
‘You can sleep when you’re dead, Lucy Young. We’re celebrating your promotion, end of. Drinks on me.’
I can’t help grinning as I turn to walk away.
Chapter 2
As I’m walking from Oxford Circus towards Soho, my stomach rumbles and I realise in all the commotion of the morning, I failed to have breakfast. My route to work takes me past numerous delicious-smelling cafés and eye-wateringly expensive clothes shops. I allow myself a moment’s pause in front of a minimalist shop window, gazing up at a slim-cut red suit. It is feminine and powerful, fashionable yet timeless.One day, Lucy, one day.
As I’m daydreaming about wool-blend blazers, my phone rings. ‘Home’ is calling.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say as I answer. It is always Dad. Mum will be in the background, shouting out things to say. They haven’t got to grips with the concept of speakerphone yet.
‘We know you’re busy, we just wanted to wish you luck on your first day.’
‘Tell her good luck!’ I hear Mum shout. ‘Ask her what she’s wearing.’
‘What are you wearing?’
‘Said the actress to the bishop,’ I say in a silly voice, and Dad bursts out laughing. It’s a childish joke between Dad and me. We race to say it whenever there’s even the hint of a double entendre.
‘What’s so funny?’ asks Mum in the background.
‘Tell Mum I’m wearing M&S court shoes and a sensible hemline.’ He repeats this back to Mum and I hear her say, ‘Very good.’
‘Thanks for calling, but I’ve got to run,’ I say, dragging myself away from the shop window and hurrying down the street.
‘Okay, darling. Just remember to have fun. You’re only young once,’ says Dad.
‘Have fun? Why are you telling her to have fun, Bert?’ says Mum. ‘She needs to apply herself. Remember Eleanor Roosevelt – “I am who I am because of the choices I made yesterday.”’
‘Mum also says to have fun,’ Dad says before hanging up.
By the time I reach the office, I’m so hungry, I’m beginning to regret saying no to Betty’s broth. Hopefully there’ll be some leftover biscuits in the communal kitchen. Someone brought a proper tin in last week, though all the chocolate ones had already been eaten.
‘Lucy.’ A sharp voice snaps me out of my reverie about biscuits. It’s my boss, Melanie. She has a phone to her ear, but holds out a finger, indicating I should wait until she’s finished her call.
