Spence is wearing a hangover behind sunglasses and a flat white as we wait on the platform. The air is still taut between the two of them, but Georgia is acting a little more like herself, leaning into Ruby as they laugh at something on her phone.
I haven’t mentioned this morning’s letter. Or the reference to St Martins. I’d checked the pub on the way here. The Coach and Horses is still there, right in the thrum of Soho.
Josie has got us rooms at a hotel close to the event, all fully comped. I had no idea what to wear and so I stared at the contents of my case before settling on a blue halter neck dress for the event, ripping off the dry-clean only tags like a plaster. Ryan is stateside, and while there may be people from my old life there, I’m trying to look at it as nothing other than what it is. A night out in a place I used to live, with my favourite people. Still, I fidget with the overnight bag on my shoulder, like it weighsmore than it should. Spence reaches over and takes it from my shoulders, adding it to his own.
‘I can…’
‘I know, but your fidgeting is driving me mad.’
He turns his head towards the oncoming train, eyes flicking to Georgia’s lilac converse in the way he would when she was younger.Don’t stand too close to the edge; mind the gap; hold my hand. She’s standing straight, a cup of coffee in her hand, curls smoothed, and lips glossed. She catches me smiling at her, but looks away, saying something into Ruby’s ear. I frown. I get her being pissed off at her dad – that comes with the territory – but what have I done to deserve the cold shoulder?
We make our way through the packed train, finally finding a space with a table and a charging port, which Georgia immediately makes good use of.
She’s come out of her shell since last night, and it’s good to see her laughing and joking with her friend, but I don’t miss the tightness around the corner of Spence’s mouth. Georgia shrugs off her light jacket. The weight from Spencer’s shoulders that seemed to lie so heavily on him the night before has eased a little, as though speaking about some of his fears has stitched together something that could just as easily tear apart. ‘So, who is she, this TikToker?’ I ask, taking a cereal bar and biting into it.
‘From what I can gather, she plays pranks, but like kind ones?’
‘Kind pranks?’
‘Like getting a girl tickets to an event, but Perri has arranged for her to play a guitar solo with one of her idols. That kind of thing.’
‘Oh. Cool.’
We arrive at Birmingham New Street, the connection tight, and so the four of us end up having to run across the concourse, just making the next train in time. We’re all out of breath and theurgency and relief we all feel when we rush through the doors eases the tension even more. Georgia even egged him on over her shoulder:Come on, old man!She sits on the opposite aisle next to Ruby, which means Spence and I are sitting knee to knee. He pinches the space between his eyebrows.
‘I told you to take it easy on the Shiraz.’
‘I know, you were right…’ He scrapes a hand over his face.
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Never.’ But he’s smiling.
I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of Lucozade. I’ve never tried it before but after reading Michael’s letter I managed to find a bottle. I pass it to Spence, the tips of his fingers touching mine. He pauses for a second, before bringing the bottle towards him, scrunching up his nose as he smells it.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Michael says it’s the best cure for hangovers,’ I continue, trying to stop the smile as I say his name.
‘Oh, he does, does he?’
‘Says it works “like magic”.’ I add a Yorkshire accent for emphasis.
‘It looks radioactive,’ Spence says, before he takes a sip.
‘Any good?’
He passes it to me and I lift the rim to my lips. His attention is brought back to Georgia, who asks him if we will have time to visit Buckingham Palace. His face lights up at the olive branch of conversation his daughter is offering him. He nods with a smile and some of that tension that has been building up between them falls away further.
When I first left to go to university, I worried that our friendship would struggle. I almost deferred, but Spence would have none of that. We were both starting very different lives, him as a single parent, me surrounded by academics, libraries, dusty pages and old photos, living in a house I shared with threeother students. But every time I came home, my backpack heavy with textbooks and gifts for them both, Spence would be waiting at the platform. In the early days, with Georgia secured to his front in a sling, then she would be in a pushchair, and as the three years passed, her chubby hand would be waving when I disembarked.
We haven’t mentioned Heather, despite Georgia being preoccupied with Ruby. But I haven’t missed Spence’s thumbs dashing across his phone and the way he avoids my eyes after he’s sent a message.
The train continues and I reach inside my bag, pulling out my laptop. Spence looks away, eyes focused on the scenery passing by. Life going on, regardless of the lives trapped inside this small carriage. My screen springs to life. Spence glances at it briefly as I open my Facebook account, inwardly wincing at the background picture of me and Ryan. My fingers make quick work of bringing up the nostalgia forum. My heart speeds up at the ‘approved’ notification. I go to the recent posts; there are people commenting on the good old days, the bad days. I want to put my own post on there, but something about having Spence next to me makes me pause.
Spence drains the last of the Lucozade bottle, twisting the cap back on slowly. I minimise the window and do a quick Google search about St Martins, which tells me that in the eighties it was based in Soho, right in the thick of things: record shops, cafes… I find a picture of a group of students chain-smoking and no doubt talking about the Sex Pistols verses the New Romantics. I scan their faces, but he’s not there. It sounds a world away from Mike’s northern roots, but I could also picture him there, fingers black from charcoal rather than from down the mines.
Spence interrupts my thoughts. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
