Page 35 of The Good Part
‘Gross, stop it, this is my dad’s phone!’ I squeal.
‘Stop filming then,’ Roisin says, holding her hand up against the lens. ‘Pervert.’
‘Oh, let her,’ says Zoya. ‘She’s got to practise for her big career in show business. You can interview me.’
Roisin moves aside, and the camera travels across to Zoya. She stops doing Faye’s make-up and sits down on the bed.
‘Okay, yearbook questions,’ I say, in the tone of a serious interviewer, and the camera wobbles as I consult the yearbook in my other hand. ‘When we’re old, like thirty, we’ll watch this back and see what we got right. First question,’ my voice goes on. ‘Which of us is most likely to be rich?’
Zoya thinks for a moment. ‘Faye. She’ll be one of those good witches, who makes her own potions. They’ll blow up online and become cult products.’
‘I made my own perfume once,’ says Faye, leaning across the bed and draping her long arms around Zoya in a clumsy hug. We were always hugging each other back then, climbing on each other, sitting on each other’s laps. There was zero sense of personal space.
‘Agoodwitch, I said, good witch,’ says Zoya, kissing her cheek.
‘Most likely to get married?’ I ask, the camera wobbling as I consult the yearbook again.
‘Zoya,’ Roisin and Faye say at the same time, then both shout, ‘Jinx.’
‘No way,’ says Zoya. ‘I guess you, Luce, you’re the most romantic.’
‘I might have to kiss someone first, but okay. Ooh, most likely to get divorced.’
‘Roisin!’ Zoya says with a smile, and the camera moves to Roisin who gives Zoya the finger. ‘What? You’ll be like Elizabeth Taylor.’
‘Most likely to be a nun?’ comes my voice again.
‘Faye!’ shouts Roisin.
‘So, I’m a nunanda witch? I don’t like this game,’ says Faye.
‘Most likely to become prime minister?’ I ask.
‘Zoya,’ Roisin and I both say together. This question hits me hard because she could have been, she could have been anything she set her mind to.
‘Most likely to have kids first,’ I ask, and the yearbook creeps back into frame.
‘You,’ Zoya says, her eyes intent on the person behind the camera and it feels as though she’s talking to me, here, now. ‘You’ll marry a nice man and have two point four children. Then split your time between a quiet cottage in Devon and your glam pad in Hollywood.’
‘Where are you in all this?’ I ask her. ‘I don’t want to live in Hollywood if none of you are there with me.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll all go off and do our own thing for a bit. I’ll be an artist, travelling the world in a clapped-out van. Then, when we’re old, we’ll dump our men and the four of us will live in a commune,’ Zoya says, her smile lighting up the screen. Then my dad’s voice shouts from somewhere far off, ‘Lucy, girls, are you ready to go?’ and the camera view drops to my shoes. ‘Coming!’ I yell. That’s the end of the video.
Hindsight can be so cruel. Seeing my childhood bedroom, I think of all the hours of my life spent with Zoya – at school, at her parents’ house, at mine, on nights out, hanging out at Kennington Lane. How can all that shared life just end? Where have allhermemories gone?
As I’m scrolling through more videos, from times I can remember, Sam’s face, furrowed with concern, appears around the bedroom door.
‘Can I get you anything? Coffee, company?’
I shake my head and turn over in bed to face the wall. I can’t face talking.
I text Michael:I’m sick again. I can’t come to work.
I sleep. Sam brings me food like I’m an invalid. Downstairs, I hear life going on without me.
I decide to call my parents. There’s no answer on the home phone, so I call my mother’s mobile. As I wait for her to answer, a thought takes hold – I could ask them to come and get me, to take me home to my childhood bedroom. Mum could look after me, make me chocolate semolina like she did whenever I was ill as a child. Dad could light the fire in the living room while filling me in on the daily waxing and waning of his vegetable plot. The thought brings on such a wave of nostalgic longing, I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying out.
‘Hello, Lucy,’ my mother’s voice sounds distant. ‘You know we’re in Scotland? We’re out and about, if it sounds windy. Does it sound windy?’
