“I met someone,” I swoon, wishing I was revealing this at our old flat, an empty bottle of wine between us as we lay on the floor with our legs up the wall, staring at the cracks in the ceiling plaster that I’d covered with glow-in-the-dark stars.
“What?” Then she gasps, “You met someone?”
I laugh. “Ididmeet someone.Thesomeone, I think.”
“Ooh! What? Really?” she says. “Mara!”
“Yeah, he’s a cellist in an orchestra,” I begin, eager to tell her everything while I have her attention. “I was walking through the Jewish Quarter and had gotten lost; then I saw this tiny shop, and inside this woman was doing readings. And just...everythingshe said...”
I hear Sophie start to wail in the background. “Damn it! OhGod, this is so unfair. I really have to go and feed her, okay? Can I call you back?”
“It’s almost like she can sense you’re on the phone to me,” I say, trying to sound jovial, but instantly regretting it.
“Sorry, Mar,” she says. “Another time!?”
“I could just save it for Saturday?”
“What’s happening Saturday?” she says.
“I’m coming up to see you, remember? You said I should come on Saturday and tell you all about the trip.”
“Oh shit. Yes. Sorry. Great.” I can hear the baby getting louder and the sound of Charlie heaving her up.
“Go. Go!” I say cheerily.
“Let’s make sure we get together soon!”
And she’s already forgotten about Saturday. She’s like a goldfish at the moment—I’m never sure she’s actually listening to anything I tell her. Losing Charlie to a baby is basically the adult version of when your best friend gets a boyfriend at school. All the pain, but you can’t complain. I remind myself to be more patient; she’s a new mum. She’s tired. She’s stressed. But it still hurts.
I moved here to be closer to Charlie, but I only really have the dregs of her left. She’s been my only friend for the last decade. My onlyclosefriend. I’d met her right after my disastrous time at uni, when I was at my absolute lowest, and now, somehow, I only have her. But Charlie has Alex and Sophie—my person is somebody else’s person.
And yet, fate sent me here. A council job. By the sea. At the world’s most glorious pool. Like something out of a Wes Anderson film.
But in my six months here, I’ve never really found a way to fitin. It’s like I pushed all my chips onto the Charlie square on a blackjack table and lost.
And now I’m alone.
In my deepest, most aching dreams, I thought I would be more.
My desk phone interrupts me with an almightyring. I jump ten feet and grab it, pulling the receiver to my ear.
“Mara Williams,” I say breathlessly.
“Mar,” says Samira, “the turnstile is jammed again and Mrs. Cummings is stuck halfway. Can you bring the crowbar from the kitchen? Ryan is finding something to lubricate the arm.”
“Why do you have to make it sound like a sex party?” shouts Lynn angrily in the background.
And then Ryan, apparently arriving at the scene, says cheerily, “All I have is Vaseline. Stay still, Mrs. Cummings.”
4
I am almost comatosewith tiredness when I finally get to my front door and brace myself for interaction with my new flatmate. Ashley Greene moved in while I was in Budapest, and except for one brief interview that turned quickly into a handing over of the keys, we’ve never really sat down and spoken.
Ashley, or “Ash” as she’d signed off her email, was busy with work and wanted to find “somewhere quiet.” This suggested to me that she would not be home much, would not have many visitors, and would likely keep to herself in the evenings. It suggested tea, hot water bottles, andBuffyreruns in her bedroom. A nice, independent flatting situation, I thought.
Then I met Ash and was once again reminded that I should never trust my gut.
“Ash? Ashley?” I said, confused, to the dark-haired, dark-eyedmanwho was leaning against the Victorian-era lamppost outside the flat at the exact time we’d arranged to meet.
