Prologue #3
Imogen glared at her. “You know I’ve never wanted a roommate, as much as I love you both.” She very much valued her space, her privacy. Especially now. Her friends knew that about her.
Niamh held her hands up. “I had assumed you’d take the one bedroom. We’re fine with sharing. I’ve already promised not to watch Piper sleep.”
“She did. Wait. Does that mean you’re considering it?” Piper asked eagerly, her face full of hope now too.
“No, of course not,” Imogen said, feeling bad for immediately crushing it.
But the fact that either of them thought that she would ever go along this bizarre plan was beyond her.
Did they not know her at all? She was the most rigid person she knew, especially lately.
Predictability and routine had become dear friends.
“You may as well have an apartment each. I’ll sleep in the spare room when I visit.
” Which she would. Because she would miss them.
Her heart sank as the realisation set in that her two best friends in the whole world were planning on leaving.
She wouldn’t see them around at work anymore.
They wouldn’t grab lunch together. Or wait for each other beside the huge oak tree by the revolving glass door at the front of Clover’s building after work like they always did.
Instead of hanging out on the regular, their meetups would become preplanned and rare.
And that’s if they didn’t grow apart completely when their lives went separate ways.
That happened sometimes. It was a natural thing that people drifted apart.
Imogen tried to shake off the sadness. She would make sure that didn’t happen—try to visit as often as she could. These two were her people after all. She refused to lose them.
“Immy,” Niamh said gently, “When was the last time you were happy here?”
“I am happy here.”
“You’re comfortable here,” Niamh said. “That’s different.”
Imogen stiffened. “It’s home.”
And it was. When Imogen had first moved out of her parents’ house, she hadn’t ventured far.
Only a short drive away. Imogen had only been able to afford the tiniest studio apartment in Belfast. Yet, more than a decade later—several pay rises and one spectacular heartbreak on—she still lived there.
Why? Because she was used to it. Used to the smell of terrible Chinese takeaway drifting through the window if she left it open.
Used to the corner shop charging criminal prices for milk.
Used to her upstairs neighbour hoovering at seven p.m. every Tuesday and Friday without fail.
Used to the eleven-minute walk to work plagued with lines of pink buses and revving cars—eighteen minutes if she took the quieter route through the park, which she often did.
Niamh reached out and touched Imogen’s arm. “It’s also a place that’s full of bad memories now.”
The words landed hard. Especially with the thought so fresh in her mind.
Piper winced. “Subtle.”
“You know I’m right,” Niamh said.
Imogen did know. But she lifted her chin anyway. “I’m not uprooting my life because of my ex-girlfriend.”
“This isn’t about Chelsea,” Niamh said. “It’s about you.”
“It’s about running away, you mean,” Imogen shot back.
“No,” said Niamh. “It’s about moving forward.”
For one irritating second, Imogen had no reply.
The bathroom door swung open and a woman from accounts walked in. Without hesitation, Piper threw herself into Niamh’s arms and let out a theatrical wail. “Why doesn’t she want me back? I don’t understand. How can I be too pretty?”
Imogen bit the inside of her cheek to stop the grin that threatened.
“Sorry,” Niamh mouthed to the woman, patting Piper’s back. “Bad breakup.”
The woman nodded sympathetically and backed straight out again.
Piper straightened. “And scene.”
“You’re going to hell,” Imogen said.
“Maybe,” Piper replied. “But first Ballyluck.”
Despite herself, Imogen laughed. She checked the time. “I need to get back.”
Niamh stepped closer. “Please just think about it. Properly.”
Piper clasped her hands. “Imagine it, Immy. Sea air, cosy pub, no whispers about The-Bitch-Who-Shan’t-Be-Named, and me behind a bar pulling pints badly.”
“You might poison people,” she pointed out, only half joking.
“Only accidentally.”
Imogen laughed again, then pulled them both into a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”
“We’re not dead,” Piper said into her shoulder.
“Yet,” Niamh added. “And neither are you. Live a little.”
When they let go, Imogen backed towards the door with a sigh.
“Please think about it?” Niamh asked again, popping out her bottom lip.
“I will,” Imogen replied automatically.
Then she frowned. Because she found that there was a small possibility she meant it. She turned and left the bathroom before either of them could pull her up on it.
On the stairs back to the fifth floor, images from the phone kept returning uninvited. The village. The cliffs. Space. Quiet. A place where nobody knew anything about her.
This was ridiculous. She wasn’t really considering it, was she? She had a life here. A job. A home. A routine she trusted.
And yet, by the time she reached the landing, the word no didn’t feel nearly as certain as it had ten minutes earlier.
Imogen slipped back onto the fifth floor and tried not to act like her vision for her future hadn’t just been totally turned on its head.
Phones still rang. Keyboards still clattered.
Someone laughed too loudly near the printer.
Clover Insurance carried on exactly as it always had, indifferent to the fact that, because of one surprising conversation, Imogen no longer seemed to fit inside it.
She reached her desk and sat down slowly.
Everything was where she had left it. Her favourite mug.
Her leather-bound notebook. Her colour-coded to-do list. The plant Piper insisted was thriving despite all evidence to the contrary.
The framed quote her mum had given her about strength and finding it within herself.
Usually, the sight of it all felt homey. Her little desk.
Her computer screen had gone dark. Imogen moved the mouse, and it flickered to life, revealing the spreadsheet she had been intending to work on before her unexpected bathroom rendezvous. Rows of figures glared back at her and Imogen stared at the numbers.
Then, against her will, she saw those damn pastel houses instead.
That circular village square. Green hills folding into the cliffs.
The old stone well outside a pub with chipped paint and possibilities.
A place where nobody knew her face from a breakup video—hopefully.
And most importantly, she pictured her two best friends who needed her. Who wanted her.
She blinked hard and looked back at the spreadsheet.
For a few minutes she managed to continue with work. She highlighted cells D1-12 in yellow. How thrilling.
Across the office, two women from underwriting glanced in her direction, then bent their heads together.
One of them smirked. Maybe it had nothing to do with her.
Maybe. But the old familiar heat climbed her neck anyway.
The same mix of shame and anger and helplessness she hated herself for still feeling.
Niamh’s voice came back to her. You’re comfortable here. That’s different.
Imogen looked around at the office she had once been proud to belong to. The grey carpet. The fluorescent lights. The low hum of computers. The ridiculously bright peach paint on the walls.
Her chest tightened. Was this really it? Was this the life she was trying so hard to protect?
A tiny flat she’d outgrown and a job she was good at but no longer excited by. Safety and comfort dressed up as happiness.
Her phone buzzed again.
Are you ready to say yes yet? Piper asked.
Then again.
Ignore her. Just think about it. No pressure, Niamh added.
Imogen looked at their names on the screen and felt something warm twist in her chest. These were her people.
The two people who had stood beside her through everything.
Through Chelsea. Through the fallout. Through nights she couldn’t stop crying and mornings she pretended she was fine.
And now they were offering her a way out of the life that for some reason she kept insisting was enough.
Her pulse quickened. This was absurd. Irresponsible. Wildly unlike her. She opened the message thread anyway.
Closed it. Opened it again. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
If she said yes, everything would change. If she said no…nothing would. And suddenly that felt far more terrifying.
Imogen drew one steadying breath.
Then she began to type.