Epilogue
Three Months Later
We looked so nice at Rob and Gia’s anniversary.” Angie is flicking through pictures on her phone, which are being projected onto the wall. I look up to see a photo of just her.
“I wasn’t at Rob and Gia’s anniversary,” I say, continuing to lay out paper plates.
“Right,” she says, tilting her head to one side to admire past Angie’s hair.
I smirk. I’m secretly thankful there will be way more pictures of Angie than me, because I never would have chosen to project giant images of ourselves onto a wall for all our friends and acquaintances to see, but it is quite iconic.
“What time is it?” she asks.
“Eight.”
“Oh my God, we’re running out of time!” she shrieks.
Periodically for the past two hours she’s asked me what time it is and had a freak-out when I tell her.
Yet each time she doesn’t move to do anything except select more photos for the projector.
I roll my eyes. Still, she found this great flat and is giving me rental mates’ rates, so I can let it slide.
It’s not quite as fancy as her and Jacob’s house, but they sold it and split the money fifty-fifty, even though Jacob put in more initially, so she was able to afford this place.
I am relieved to move out of the little dark hole we were renting together on a rolling contract, because I don’t think I could take another second of Angie moaning about the dingy bathroom grouting.
“Oh, your mum replied by the way,” Angie informs me. She is in charge of invites.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, she said thanks for including her, but she and Gavin are going to a movie. She’s going to come over and see the place tomorrow instead.”
I smile. The Mum of three months ago would never have let me do my own thing. She would have been here early commenting on optimum balloon placement and our choice of snacks. She seems so much happier now Gavin’s living with her.
Three more stunning pictures of Angie flash past and then finally one of me pops up.
I’m doing a tarot reading at Dami’s birthday party last month.
I’m really into it now, much to Sara’s excitement.
I’m still not sure if I fully believe it’s magical or a higher power—I mean, maybe?
Every reading I’ve had has been pretty spooky—but I definitely believe that it helps me to get in touch with myself and work out how I’m feeling about things. The cards are very wise.
I hear Max laughing in my head, saying, Yes, and the tooth fairy is my grandmother.
I still think about Max. I have weak days where I want to message him like nothing happened.
He messaged me, at first, more little snippets of nothingness, acting like everything was the same.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to reply, especially after a few drinks, but I gave myself an especially “cathartic”—as Sara would say—tarot reading where I pulled the Devil card (about not giving in to negative cycles and self-defeating patterns) and I blocked him instead.
I have no idea if he’s dating someone else by now or even in the country.
I don’t actually want to know . . . It doesn’t change anything.
I almost can’t believe that I haven’t seen or spoken to him in three months.
I’m having a housewarming party and he’s not invited.
Six months ago he would have been the only guest I cared about.
Part of me longs to call him and laugh it all off.
Another part of me still expects him to show up unannounced.
If I did call him, he probably would come.
I could pretend for an evening that we really do belong together.
That he’s not only interested in a version of me from the past. That he wants me to grow and change and have good things, rather than staying forever in a role that serves his ego.
I could return to pining after him. It would be bliss living in memories, in dreamland, for another evening or however long I was able to live in denial.
But we’d just end up back in the exact same place and I’d have to accept the truth all over again.
“Remember, four-drink limit,” Angie reminds me as I put the punch bowl on the table. “And plenty of food.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mum.”
“I’ll be watching you.” Angie puts her fingers to her eyes, then points them at mine. She claims this is for my own good so I don’t ruin my first day at my new job on Monday, but I suspect it’s partly because she’s frightened I’m going to throw up on the new beige carpet.
Anyway, she needn’t worry, because I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize getting off to the right start on Monday.
Besides, I don’t feel the urge to drink half as much as I used to.
Realistically I don’t think I’d ever go teetotal, or even as far as Dry January, but I don’t feel the same self-destructive magnetic force toward getting obliterated anymore.
All my worst decisions were made when I was drunk.
I can’t totally blame the alcohol; I think, on some level, I drank that much on purpose because I knew it would allow me to make terrible decisions.
I’m not in that place anymore, so it’s not like I’m forcing myself to keep away from it exactly, but I want it less.
My stomach flips over. Monday. When I will have a new desk and new colleagues and a new commute at a new place I actually want to work in.
The ton of degrading interviews I’ve been doing over the past three months—in between selling popcorn at the local cinema for quick cash, which wasn’t all bad because of the free movies—were actually worth it.
Even the man who asked me what color I’d be.
In front of a room full of people. I said, “Orange, because I’m always bright and sunny?
” and loathed myself for an entire week.
I hope it was all worth it, anyway. Unless .
. . what if I hate it straightaway?! What if the job’s only pretending to sound really fun and cool and oooh we get to go to lots of free screenings and get paid to watch films but when I get there I’m instantly sent to buy the office milk and denied tickets to anything?
Or I get given a desk next to Ted 2.0, who breathes really loudly, and all the fun people are on the other side of the room?
And because I’m in a corner, by the Ted lookalike, no one ever remembers to give me anything good?
And then I stay for years and years doing all the worst tasks and a girl called Amanda who joined five minutes ago gets sent to a premiere with Timothée Chalamet and they fall in love and get married?
Breathe. It will be fine. It will be good. You have been out with your colleagues already and you liked all of them. Mostly because you actually gave them a chance.
Either way, I tell myself, even if it is shit and even if I haven’t found the thing I want to keep doing forever . . . at least I’m trying.
The doorbell rings. I realize, in my dread-filled daydream, I’ve just been standing staring into space clutching a bag of Pom-Bears.
Dami and Phil appear in the doorway. “Snazzy, guys, snazzy.” Phil whistles as he looks around the room. Dami’s been over, but no one else has seen the place. Angie wouldn’t let anyone in until it was perfectly decorated.
“Thanks,” I say, surveying the room with fresh eyes.
I am genuinely pleased with the way it turned out.
At first I worried that anywhere we lived was going to look exactly like Angie’s old place, 100 percent Angie.
After all, I’m supposed to be paying her rent and the flat is technically hers.
But after a giant glass chandelier arrived for my bedroom and I expressed it wasn’t quite to my taste, she apologized for “dominating” (she “didn’t know if I’d noticed but she has a tendency to do that”) and suggested that I could help pick things for my own room.
We found a sweet, unfurnished flat that suits both of our commutes, and she included me in decisions on what furniture she was buying. The place really does feel like ours.
“Oh, Becky, thank you so much for the playlist! It sounds great!” Dami claps.
Dami had complained that her and Phil’s music tastes were so different—Phil is a big fan of country—that their wedding playlist was going to be a confusing cacophony of sounds.
I’m pretty good at mixing so I offered to help sort it out and somehow managed to fashion Dami’s love of modern pop music and Phil’s obsession with Dolly Parton into something vaguely flowing, using Beyoncé’s rendition of “Jolene” as a midpoint.
“No problem,” I say, thinking how I’m actually excited for their wedding, and how much more fun it’s been since she agreed to stop talking about it 24/7 and I actively involved myself in helping to plan it.
Dami, Phil, Angie, and I open the snacks.
Halfway through the bag of Pom-Bears, Angie calls that my sister’s here.
I race through to the hallway. She and her new girlfriend, Mia, are staying in the spare room.
They make quite an odd-looking pair, with Leila covered in sparkles and garish colors and talking nonstop, and Mia wearing all black and barely saying two words together, but since gaining a fresh perspective on Phil and Damilola, I’m trying this new thing where I don’t condemn other people’s relationships.
(At least not until I have all the relevant knowledge. Obviously, I still live to judge once fully informed.)
“You made it!” I raise my glass.
“Yes.” Leila’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”