“But it’s too painful,” I say, clutching at my heart. “I can’t bear it. I feel so rejected. It’s worse than breaking up with a partner. She hung up on me. Hung up!”
“I lost my best friend from high school,” she says. “She went to college in London and made a friend there and just didn’t have any use for me anymore. Mind you, I had no use for her.” At this she laughs. “What, am I going to have endless conversations about cocaine and house parties? I don’t even drink. But seriously, we have moved on. She’s changed; I’ve changed. Doesn’t need to be a drama.”
“You should be a therapist,” I say.
“I want to be a stylist, actually.”
“You’d be good at that too.”
“In this town? Who am I gonna style?” she says, laughing. “Lynn?”
There is a silence now and I ruminate on my friendship with Charlie. We have drifted apart, that is true. Is it terminal? I think about our last interactions, the fact that she is always busy, and now it seems to be me who is. That I am genuinely frustrated by how much time and energy we spend on talking about Sophie. That I have been upset for the last few years with her, on some low level, just for getting on with her life. That the main problem is that I didn’t have a network to plug the gaps while she readjusted to a new normal. She knew it, and I wonder if, in a way, she has forced some kind of space because of it. I cringe about the day I told her I was moving near her. The pause on the phone. What must she have thought? What must Alex have thought?
“Am I sort of creepy?” I ask Samira, who is eyeing me with interest, like she’s waiting for something to happen.
She laughs a little too long at this and then says, “No. Now that I know you, you’re really rather sweet.”
I hear my phone ping and look to check it. It’s Ash.
I’m going to be out tonight. Just to let you know. Ax
“Is that Ash?” Samira says, grinning and lifting both eyebrows suggestively.
I flush red, recalling a flash of his thighs jammed between mine, and his hungry lips on my neck. I have to bite my lip at the memory. “I do really like him. He’s actually one of the kindest, most patient, most generous humans I’ve ever met. And I fancy him. I admit it. He’s tall, dark, and handsome like a mid-century movie star.”
Samira smiles. “But?”
“But I have put all this energy into Joe,” I say quietly. “Samira. I’m torn here.”
“What does your heart tell you?”
As soon as she says it, I picture him.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
26
A week later,I’m lying on my bed, my face cradled in my hands as the final scene ofPride and Prejudice—the correct and only version, with Keira Knightley and Tom fromSuccession—finishes in a kiss on the moors, the rising sun bursting between them. I think about the kiss with Ash in the darkness and how I cannot deny I want more. I cannot shake him from my thoughts. It’s like someone keeps hitting Play on the same scene from a film, and I have to work hard not to look.
It is a mere two short weeks now until the election, and only three until the last Friday in August, and Project Mara is coming to a giddy climax. I have been to choir group, which was extraordinarily fun—twelve of us singing hilarious arrangements including Wilson Phillips’s “Hold On” and Harry Styles’s “Watermelon Sugar.”
I look in the mirror. I’m wearing a cherry-red top and wide-leg jeans. Birkenstocks. It is a mix of vintage and new. I bought aleather backpack, and on Wednesday, I found an old bicycle for sale, which is now my primary mode of transport around Broadgate. No one wants to buy the old hearse, and I’m thinking of just dumping it at a parts yard at this point.
Out in the lounge, I can hear Ash moving around. We’ve barely seen each other since we got back from Corbridge last week. Ash has dug in on studying, despite being on summer break. He’s been getting ahead for the new semester. There have been no movie nights since we got back.
I switch off the TV and cautiously make my way into our shared kitchen.
“Hey, Mara,” he says, seeming to take some effort to look at me. “We’re like passing ships at the moment.”
He smiles, and I feel a rush of affection for him. His eyes are crinkling, but he looks really tired. Then I see the outfit. Is that a new shirt? I’ve never seen that shirt.
“What are you wearing?” I ask; then I quickly add, “Are you going out?”
“Thanks,” he says, looking at the cuff on his shirt, tugging on it slightly. “I, um, have something to tell you.”
“Oh, this can’t be good,” I say, perching on the edge of the table, folding my arms.
“No, it’s not...” He stops himself and looks at me, pained.
