25
It’s surprising how time fills itself now that Tilly has so much of it on her hands. Given that work took up so much space in her life for so many years, she imagined she’d find it hard to adjust. But she relaxes into her free time like sinking into a warm bath.
She sleeps a lot, finally giving in to the fatigue that has plagued her since Joe died. Which she pushed through in the name of her career. Now she lets herself nap in the afternoon if she needs to, and when she wakes she feels a little steadier, a little more human. She runs, sometimes alone and sometimes with Harper, the routes still short and slow but day by day getting ever so slightly less painful.
In the evenings she cooks, inviting Harper and Raj over to share a paella that they couldn’t quite believe she made from scratch, followed by an Eton mess with emphasis on the ‘mess’. Normally when Tilly eats she has the TV on in the background for company but on that night the flat was filled with voices and laughter.
A couple of times a week she pops into the bookshop. It seems Alfie was genuine in his offer because when she stops by he makes sure there is a chair free where she can tuck up and read, Georgette usually hopping on to her lap. Sometimes she’ll fall into conversation with Alfie, Prudence or Blue, but if the shop is busy she’ll just read quietly, grateful to have found her love of reading again. She steadily makes her way throughthe shop’s romance section, as well as new releases by some of her favourite authors; she has missed them during her reading hiatus. Being in the bookshop feels like being alone but not alone. When she’s there her grief waits outside the door like a dog tied to a lamp post, peering in but not venturing inside.
And then, at the end of the month, she finds herself putting lipstick on in the bathroom mirror, getting ready to visit a pub in Camden for the first time in months.
Can’t wait to see you later, comes a message from Rachel.
Same here, Tilly replies, slipping a denim jacket over her floaty blue dress.
When Rachel invited her for a drink at their old favourite pub she was hesitant at first, but remembered her decision to give Rachel another chance. We all make mistakes. Some friendships just fade away. But maybe some can be resuscitated.
She gives her lipstick a final check, tugging the hem of her dress. As she’s about to leave she spots her copy ofHello Beautifulby Ann Napolitano on the coffee table, a recommendation from Prudence that she recently finished, and slips it in her bag.
The street outside the pub is busy, groups of guys in suits nursing pints and talking loudly on the pavement. As Tilly approaches she flashes them a glance, thinking how easy it is to picture Joe among them.
‘Scuse me,’ she says, and they step aside to let her past, one of them holding the door open for her.
It is quieter inside and she lets out a breath of relief at the familiar sight of the pub she has visited countless times before. It looks exactly the same, beer mats pinned to the ceiling, leather chairs arranged in cosy groups, and the back door open and letting in sunshine and a pleasant breeze from the beer garden.
‘Tilly!’ comes a voice, and Tilly spots Rachel at one of their favourite tables – a booth in the corner, the seats piled with comfy cushions.
When Tilly reaches her Rachel stands up and hugs her tightly. It feels like pulling on an old favourite summer dress again after winter has passed. That feeling of surprise that it still fits, but delight that it does.
A waitress comes over and they order drinks and burgers. Once they’re alone again they both look at each other for a moment, each smiling but saying nothing. Then Tilly remembers the book in her bag.
‘I just finished this and thought you might like it,’ she says, sliding it across the table.
Rachel eagerly picks it up and begins reading the blurb.
‘Ooh, I’ve heard of this one but haven’t read it yet. Thanks, Tils.’ She places the book down, resting one hand on the cover as if petting a sleeping cat. Then she looks up, leaning forward slightly. ‘Now I want to hear everything you’ve been up to recently. Starting with the fact you’ve quit your job! Which I still can’t believe, by the way.’
The waitress reappears with Rachel’s glass of wine and Tilly’s gin and tonic, placing them down with a smile. They raise their glasses, their eyes meeting – and Tilly thinking about fresh starts – as they clink them together.
‘I still can’t quite believe it either,’ she says after a sip of her drink.
‘Obviously, it’s amazing that you have, though. You’ve been speaking about moving on to something else ever since I met you.’ Rachel tilts her head, considering this for a moment. ‘Actually, that’s not true. You talked loads about leaving when we first became friends, but less so later on.’
A memory enters Tilly’s mind of the one time she thought she really might leave. She’d been ready to hand in her notice.But then her life exploded and a new job became the last thing on her mind.
‘I think I got stuck,’ Tilly admits, thinking back to the time following Joe’s diagnosis and his death, when the familiarity of work felt like a place in which to hide.
‘I get that,’ Rachel replies. ‘I think maybe I’ve got stuck too. I get sick of writing other people’s stories sometimes. Especially people like Esmerelda’s.’ She gives a little shudder and Tilly stifles a laugh.
‘How’s that all going?’ she asks, surprised that she hasn’t once thought about Esmerelda Love and the book since leaving Splash.
Rachel rolls her eyes. ‘It’s … going. She recently decided she wants to write the whole book in lower case because it’s what the “kids” are doing. Even though she’s forty-five. But we’ll get there. I’m just not sure this is exactly the kind of writing the nerdy kid in me had in mind when she dreamed of being an author.’
‘Then you should write your own book! You’re an amazing writer. It’s a shame that it’s never your name on the things you write.’
‘Ah, but it’s a lot riskier to put my own name to my work. If people didn’t like it there would be nowhere to hide.’
Tilly takes another sip of her drink and then asks, ‘If you weren’t afraid, what would you write?’
