Page 61 of The Key to My Heart

‘Anyway. The thing is,’ Priya waffles as I peel a top off the pile in her arms, ‘some people really do not want a fuss with their thirtieths. I loved mine. Embraced age thirty. Did not want to stay a day later in my shitty bloody twenties. But I dunno, Luce is … Lucy is—’

‘A bitDeath Becomes Her?’ I offer, fishing a hanger through the neck of a jumper (with ribbon sleeve ties, no less). ‘Would definitely harvest the soul of an infant for everlasting youth?’

‘I was going to say private,’ says Priya. ‘But yes. Also that. Roxanne says she doesnotwant to be thirty, that she’sforbiddenher and the rest of the family to organise anything thirty or special-birthday related, but – I don’t know. I know Lucy. She loves a fuss.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And Roxanne agrees,’ says Priya. ‘She’d actually love it. So, what do you think? Do I trust her sister, go the whole hog? Do I go full-blown balloons and cake and banners, or do we not mention the age and just throw a nice, ageless birthday dinner? The safer option.’

‘Priya, she’s turningthirty,’ I say, hanging the jumper on an empty, shiny, silver rail. ‘She’s not going on death row. Although, I’m now extremely tempted to buy her some denture glue. Wrap it up in a Tiffany box. Full of thirty confetti that explodes upon opening.’

‘Don’t.Can you imagine?’ Priya laughs. ‘And you’re right, I say we embrace it. I say we get it all, the lot, even a thirty sparkler for the cake, a bloody sash, and just – go wild.’

‘Not too wild, though,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to bring on labour. No offence, but I’m no good with bodilyfluids.’ I look down at Priya’s taut, round bump hiding behind the mound of new autumnal blouses I thought looked more like something off the front of a Bee Gees album. (But blouses, even Bee Gees ones, according to Jodie are ‘very Insta at the moment’.) Priya doesn’t have long to go now, and while she keeps referring to herself as ‘a walking, talking boulder’, I’ve never seen her look so beautiful. Her skin is lineless and glowing, the whites of her eyes bright, her hair thick and shiny, almost like her body is out in celebration, for everything it’s done, and what it’s about to do.

‘Just as long as he doesn’t arrive before thirty-seven weeks,’ says Priya, ‘I’m down with earliness. Plus, it means I could drink—’

‘Can you not just have a little one anyway?’

‘Ugh,probably.But my midwife was a bit weird about it. She basically told me if I did, I’d give birth to Phil Mitchell and I mean – who wants that? I’d love him regardless, but birthing a little grizzly, ruddy-cheeked Phil with a drink problem? I’d rather not— Errr, Natalie?’

‘Mm?’ I look up from my phone, a bunch of sale tags now tucked between my ear and neck, like my mum used to in the nineties with the cordless landline.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Me?’ I ask pointlessly.

‘Yes, bloody you. Is that a picture of Axl Rose on your screen?’

I laugh. ‘It’s from Joe.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Do you remember Russ and I went to that Guns N’ Roses concert, years ago? Well, Joe’s just texted. Said they’re showing some retro Guns N’ Roses gigs at a little cinema over near him at Christmas. We might go.’

‘I see,’ says Priya again, and she seems … weird all of a sudden. Like she’s thinking something she isn’t saying. Priya wears every emotion on her face. She’s never been able to hide anything – even the tiniest micro-emotion – even when she tries. (Especially when she tries, actually.) ‘And it’s … his idea, is it? To go to the cinema concert thing?’

‘Um, yes, it is.’

Priya nods again, thoughtfully, just a sweet, concerned, oval head, poking over the mound of Bee Gees outfits.

I put my phone away, take the next top.

‘You have a problem with the Guns N’ Roses suggestion,’ I say. ‘A sentence I’m not sure I ever thought I’d say, but you clearly do …’

‘No.No.’ Priya gives a stiff shake of her head, but she stretches her glossy red lips into a grimace. ‘It’s not that, Nat, I don’t have a problem with it, but … I don’t know. Have you guys ever just sort of met up and had dinner? Or just plain old-fashioned drinks? I mean, doesn’t he work in a bar?’

‘We had lunch? After record shopping …’

‘Yeah, I know, but I mean …’ Priya’s round, brown eyes slide to the ceiling and she screws up her face, as if she’s trying to solve an equation. ‘I suppose what I mean is, is he trying to actually date you, get to know you, or is he just trying to … I don’t know. Do allthese things with you. To help you. You know. Like Lucy used to?’

My eyes shoot up to meet hers. ‘Um – none of those things?’ I say. ‘I think we’re friends. New friends who … enjoy each other’s company?’

‘Friends,’ says Priya.

‘Yes. Friends,’ I reply as a customer who Priya bundled into the changing room ten minutes ago with an array of outfits pulls open the curtain, with a gust.

Priya’s mouth spreads into a huge smile. ‘Oh, yes. That colour’s amazing on you,’ she calls. ‘See. That dress wasmadefor your skin tone.’

---