Josh
June 2028
I’ve been debating going into hiding ever since Emma – for reasons best known to herself – began talking about throwing Rachel and me ‘a big fuck-off party’ for our fifty-eighth birthday. Quite why she’s decided now is the time to jump-start our social lives I have no idea, but Rachel thinks it was after she mentioned to Emma that she’d been thinking of joining the National Trust.
Fortunately, Polly ends up thwarting Emma’s sociopathic intentions by inviting the three of us to her middle son Fred’s wedding, that same weekend.
On top of my general aversion to birthdays, I’m not normally a fan of large social gatherings where more than a few people know me. Someone usually feels the need to single me out and remark upon how young I look, or tell me how much they hated the ending to one – or all – of my books or TV shows.
But, given there will be cake, champagne and – if all goes to plan – a party atmosphere, I decide to accept the invite. Mostly in order to get Emma off my back.
It’s surreal sometimes, spending time with Rachel’s daughter. She probably doesn’t remember that, growing up, she used to be my little buddy. I could lift her up with one hand, make her squeal with laughter just by pulling a stupid face. I have read to her, done jigsaws with her, let her eat Nutella from the jar with her fist. Taken her swimming, pushed her on countless swings.
Now, though, biologically, we are only five years apart. The dinner and speeches are over, which is a relief for all one hundred and fifty of us, because Fred’s best man – who’s oldenough to know better – seemed only to be familiar with jokes that stopped being funny in the eighties.
In front of us they’re setting up a dance floor, which I fully plan to ignore, because there’s one thing that pill never fixed, and that’s being afflicted with worse co-ordination than your average newborn foal.
‘Well, here’s to you both,’ Emma says, raising her glass. We are drinking champagne, Emma having insisted on buying a bottle from the marquee bar. ‘How does it feel to be fifty-eight?’
Rachel sips her drink and smiles. ‘Better if you stop saying fifty-eight.’
‘Am I going to see the pair of you up on that dance floor later?’
‘Nobody wants to see that,’ Rachel and I say, at exactly the same time.
We chat for a while longer, then Rachel says, with an oddly conspiratorial smile, ‘Hey, do you reckon anyone here thinks you’re my daughter and son?’
‘Jesus, can we not,’ I say urgently.
‘Or maybe they think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend,’ Emma says, throwing me an exaggerated wink.
I pretend to check my phone. ‘They said carriages at three, yes?’
Rachel laughs and squeezes my arm. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She turns to her daughter. ‘How about you tell us about your actual boyfriend?’
‘Mum, we’ve been through this. George isn’t my boyfriend.’
‘Oh, sorry. Of course. What would you call him, then?’
‘An acquaintance. As in, a solicitor I quite like and occasionally sleep with.’
Rachel makes a pleading face. ‘Can I meet him?’
‘Absolutely, if you’re arrested for a crime. Be sure to call Morton and Whittaker and ask for George Holdsworth.’
Rachel sighs, defeated.
Predictably, Emma turns to me. ‘How about you, Josh? Anyone you’re occasionally sleeping with?’
‘Nope. Too tired for all that now.’
‘Tired?’
‘Up here.’ I tap the side of my head.
‘I thought your brain hadn’t aged a day in nearly three decades.’
‘No. But I’ve lived every one of them. It’s mental, not physical.’
