Remy
REMY
P eople don’t believe that a large part of my job is daydreaming.
For instance, I may look like I’m merely sitting at the dining table, watching Mum cook eggs in the kitchen, twirling in circles with her arms in the air, but I’m currently working.
Tell me to come up with an idea? Easy. Tell me to write the first chapter of the idea? Couldn’t be simpler. Tell me to write the entire thing, beginning, middle, and end included? Now we have a problem.
What am I going to do when I run out of old drafts to send Tara?
What idea do I have that’s not only good enough to win her approval, but that I can actually finish writing?
Tara’s advice was to do what I did before, but differently.
Female friendship, unconventional families, secrets, self-growth, a breakup then a makeup…
Where was I going to get inspiration for that from?
“How goes the friend hunt, darling?” Mum asks, popping into my reverie.
“Oh, right. Well, I’ve tried everything you suggested,” I tell her. “I took pottery classes, cooking classes, exercise classes, went out to book events, tried to socialize, and nothing.”
“What about church?”
“ You don’t even go to church.”
“I’m not the one looking for friends,” she says, taking a seat. “When I did attend more regularly, that’s where I found my community. Five of my close friends came from church.”
“Fair enough, but I don’t want to turn up by myself to some random church. All eyes will be on me.”
“Then go to the one your grandparents used to take us to.”
We both turn to look out of the garden door. Apart from a few sprouting weeds and unpruned hedges, the garden looks exactly as it did when my grandparents lived here.
“Grandma did hope I’d attend church more regularly when she was gone.”
Mum shrugs. “God has to call to you. I decided that when I had children, their beliefs and choices would not be my hand-me-downs. I know your grandma felt the same way.”
I look at the photo of my grandparents on the fireplace.
Even though Mum raised me as a single parent by choice, she had a lot of help from them.
They were old-school Christian in a lot of ways, but even though they couldn’t wrap their head around Mum having me on her own via sperm donor, they doted on her when she was pregnant and then shared their endless affection with me when I arrived.
Aside from regular Sunday lunches in their garden, I’d come round to see them at least once a week, watching my grandma cook or discussing my latest read with Grandad.
The saddest truth is that they didn’t live long enough to see These Four Friends published.
Especially because it was partly thanks to my grandma that I ever wrote it in the first place.
Years ago, disillusioned by the publishing industry and having received another rejection for the book I’d been sending out at the time, I sat with my head in my grandma’s lap and told her I wanted to give up.
“Okay,” she’d said, genially. “Then give up.”
I’d stared up at her in disbelief. She knew better than anyone how much I wanted to be an author and for how long I’d been trying to do so. “How can you say that?” I’d asked her.
She’d smiled and said, “There it is. You want to know something important, Remy? If you can quit a thing and still be happy, quit. If you can’t leave a thing alone, it will have no choice but to happen.”
I never let go of that advice. Two more rejected books later, I wrote TFF .
Smiling, Mum puts a warm hand on my shoulder, obviously having returned from her own select memory. “Do you remember the church’s address?”
I nod, taking another look at the photograph. “Yeah, I do.”
The church is a small, modest building in Brixton, but the attire of the attendees is anything but.
It’s a festival of brightly colored fabric, beads, and headdresses.
I’m immediately out of place in jeans and a jumper.
I sit at the back and note that nothing has changed in the three years since I was last here—even the pews look the same, with the same Bibles spread out on the seats.
When the choir finishes, a Black man walks up to the pulpit. He must be new because he definitely wasn’t preaching back in my grandparents’ day. I would have remembered him.
He’s cheerful and energetic and sports a big smile, warm eyes, and a funky tie that screams Secret Santa present. He crisscrosses the stage as he speaks, with his back straight and his arms open, enveloping his congregation. He welcomes us all and asks us to turn to a particular scripture.
At the end of the service, he asks if anyone is visiting for the first time, and his eyes gently rest on mine.
I almost raise my hand, but everyone is looking around to see who does and I get stage fright.
When I refuse, he subtly nods at me and closes the service with a prayer.
He steps off the pulpit and greets two women sitting at the front of the church.
He kisses the cheek of one and squeezes the arm of the younger.
When she turns in my direction, my heart stops.
I recognize her as the woman from the restaurant.
The woman who Simone ran after—the woman she called Jenni.
I duck in case she recognizes me, trying to recall if we ever made eye contact that day.
Then I remember something more important—that I’d thought Simone and Jenni were sisters.
The pastor whispers something into Jenni’s ear and she begins walking in my direction.
She sits on the bench in front of mine as I’m readying to leave.
“First time?” she asks warmly. “My dad noticed you.”
Dad . If I’m right and Jenni is Simone’s sister, then… this is Simone’s family.
I can smell a perfume on Jenni similar to Simone’s, but I tell myself I’m imagining things. I was even expecting Simone’s voice to escape her lips, but her tone is more colloquial than Simone’s measured, restrained one. “I haven’t seen you here before.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Jenni.”
“Remy.” I shake hers and make eye contact but see that I don’t register as a familiar face to her.
“So, Remy,” she says, resting her chin on her arms. “What brings you here today?”
I lower myself back into my seat. “My grandparents used to come here. They’re not with us anymore.”
Jenni nods. “I’m sorry to hear that. We’re kind of new here, too. Coming up to a year. My dad is the pastor, he used to lead at our old church, too, before we…” She pauses. “Moved. Yeah, we moved to this church.”
“Did you live far?” I ask Jenni. I want to keep her talking so that I can figure out if I really am seeing Simone in her features or if my mind is playing tricks on me.
Jenni nods. “Yeah, we live in Walthamstow. Somehow, all my friends have ended up living here in South London and coming from East is a long trip.”
“I’m in North London, which is far from everything, so I can relate.”
“East to North isn’t too bad, though…” Jenni pauses then asks, “Would you maybe want to get a coffee, sometime?”
“Oh.”
She holds her hands up. “I’m not trying to convert you, I swear. I just… thought I’d ask.”
Something about Jenni putting herself out there reminds me a lot of myself. I briefly forget that the last person I tried to do the same thing with is possibly her sister and say, “I’d love to.”
When I get home, I don’t stop thinking about Jenni. The resemblance between her and Simone is almost undeniable. I consider searching for actual confirmation online, but instead, I open my laptop and let my imagination take over as I create S’s family.
S has (or had —currently undecided) two parents whose marriage boasts thirty-plus years and two daughters they are extremely proud of.
They have dinner together almost every evening until both children move out, and even then, they return every Sunday for lunch after church.
If the weather is nice, maybe they’ll sit in the garden.
The family group chat features constant communication, photo updates, and an unhealthy number of GIFs.
The younger daughter, J, is sweet, shy, and unassuming—you don’t glean much when you look at her.
Her elder sister, S, however, is bubbly, outgoing, and funny; she glides through conversations and leaves sparkles behind, and you’re left with no choice but to watch the dissipating stardust when she leaves.
She shows her teeth when she smiles and talks with her arms open.
She cracks jokes and tells relatable anecdotes; she dispenses sage advice without sounding didactic; she spoils her little sister, and fast becomes the most dynamic character I’ve ever written.
S is the main attraction in her little sister’s life but there’s no love lost because of it.
They’re best friends who struck gold by sharing the same DNA.
Which begs the question, I type, what went wrong?