Page 7 of The Good Part
‘No, thank you, but that’s my point. You guys are always buying me drinks and bailing me out. I don’t want to be a freeloader all my life.’ My lip wobbles, and everyone stops trying to find words to make me feel better and instead leans in for a group hug.
‘I’m fine, honestly, just having one of those days. I’m sure I’ll wake up tomorrow with a whole new perspective.’
‘Blame the moon, it’s a waxing gibbous moon tonight, always challenging,’ says Faye, raising her hands in the air and stretching.
‘Ah, so it’s the moon that’s to blame for Zoya abandoning me,’ I say.
‘What? Are you moving out?’ Roisin asks Zoya, who shifts awkwardly in her chair.
‘It’s time for me to have my own space. That’s why I took the job at Foxtons – I want to live in a nice place, I want to have money to go out, to travel. There’s so much life I want to live, and everything costs money.’
‘I want to do all those things too,’ I say, then immediately regret the note of self-pity in my voice.
‘If TV’s not making you happy, maybe it isn’t worth the long hours and the terrible pay?’ Zoya says. ‘I could get you a job at Foxtons tomorrow, you’d be brilliant. How fun would that be, Luce, us working together? Then we could both move out!’ Zoya bounces up and down in her seat, nearly upending her wine.
‘I don’t want to be an estate agent, Zoya,’ I snap, my wine-softened brain letting out the words before I can filter them. There’s a heavy pause, and I sense Faye physically brace, her hand tightening around her wine glass, while Roisin makes an audible intake of breath.
‘Oh, sorry to propose something as mercenary as working for money,’ Zoya says tightly.
Why couldn’t I just say, ‘Thanks Zoya, I’ll think about it,’ like any normal person?Faye and Roisin take slow sips of their drinks in perfect unison.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. You’re brilliant at it and I know you love it, but I just don’t think it would be for me.’
‘It’s a means to an end, so I can do fun stuff, so I can travel.’
‘And that’s great, for you. I just... I feel too young to give up on my career just yet.’
‘You mean like I did, giving up on art school?’ Zoya asks, pursing her lips, arms crossed in front of her chest.
‘No, I didn’t mean that at all.’
‘You’re in a different situation from me,’ Zoya says, her face serious. ‘If I don’t earn my own money, my parents will pressure me into marrying some nice Indian boy from a good family. You know they always viewed my art as a hobby, something to do before I got married, that I’d give up when I had kids, but I’m not going to live a small life.’ She thumps the table with her fist, her eyes brimming with emotion. ‘Iwillpaint, on my own terms, in my own time.’
‘I know you will, Zoy, and I don’t want you to think I’m blaming anyone else for my situation,’ I explain.
‘Well stop whining about it then,’ Zoya says. ‘Or get a side hustle or something.’ She pauses and then pushes her chair back from the table.
‘Oh no, Zoya, please don’t go. I’m sorry,’ I plead, reaching out a hand to her.
‘I’ve got to do an early viewing tomorrow. All part of my soulless, cop-out job.’ She slaps a twenty-pound note down on the table, more than enough to cover the wine we’ve drunk. Then, before I can stop her, she’s walked out of the pub.
‘Wow, the moon is being a real bitch tonight, huh,’ Roisin says, but when I don’t smile, she puts a hand on my arm and says, ‘She’ll be fine. You know what she’s like.’
‘I was just venting, none of that was about her,’ I say glumly.
‘We know you were,’ says Faye.
‘I just... I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.’
An hour later, I’m at the tube station saying a wobbly goodbye to Faye and Roisin. Faye is cycling home, and Roisin is getting a cab.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’ Faye asks, her face creased with concern. ‘If you’re really worried about this ceiling situation, you should sleep in Zoya’s room.’
‘I know, I will, and thanks for tonight, I appreciate you all coming out.’
It’s only when they’ve both left, and I’ve swiped my empty travel card, then my even emptier debit and credit cards, that I realise I don’t have enough money to get home. Damn. I could call Faye, ask her to cycle back and lend me a fiver, but it’s too humiliating. The map on my phone tells me it will only take forty-five minutes to walk from Soho back to Kennington Lane, which feels like a long way at ten o’clock at night, but then distance is relative. Hannibal walked over the Alps, didn’t he, and the Roman army walked all the way from Rome to Britain. Everything’s walking distance if you have enough time and the right footwear.
It turns out I don’t have the right footwear. I’m thirty minutes into my epic walk across London when my cheap black ballet flats start to hobble me with blisters. I’m guessing the Roman army didn’t cross Europe in ballet flats. I’m trying to conserve my phone battery by not checking my map all the time, but now nothing looks familiar, and when I sit down on the pavement to consult my phone, I realise I’ve walked too far east.
