Page 55 of The Fall-Out

‘You’re right, I suppose,’ she carried on once he’d gone, ‘it’s all water under the bridge now. Life carries on and changes. Apart from the Girlfriends’ Club. I’ve always thought of the Girlfriends’ Club as a kind of constant in the world, one of those things that’ll never change. Like Quality Street selection boxes at Christmas.’

‘They change those all the time,’ I pointed out. ‘And whenever they do, there’s practically a riot about it.’

Zara laughed. ‘You’re so funny, Naomi. You always were. I do hope you’re right. And I hope we can – maybe not be friends again, but at least let bygones be bygones. Can we?’

Our next round of drinks arrived, and she extended her glass to me. I raised mine too, but withdrew it before it could touch hers.

‘Zara,’ I said. ‘There are a few things you need to know. One I’ve already told you – I’m truly sorry you were hurt and I regret my part in that. Two, the promise I made to you – I’ve never broken it and I never will. And three, my friendship with the Girlfriends’ Club is the most important thing in the world to me, apart from Patch and our children. And I won’t put it at risk for anything or anyone.’

She looked at me appraisingly and then nodded. ‘I understand.’

Slightly mollified, I went on, ‘But of course I can let bygones be bygones. I don’t want to hold grudges.’

She smiled. ‘That’s good to know. To friendship, then.’

Reluctantly, I extended my drink again. This time, I heard the faint, musical clink as the glasses connected.

‘Cheers,’ I said. I felt there was nothing else I could say.

‘Excuse me’ – Zara got to her feet – ‘I have to use the loo.’

Taking advantage of her absence, I signalled the waiter for our bill and when she still hadn’t returned by the time he brought it, I paid.

It was only after we’d said a brief, coolly civil goodbye in the rainy street that I realised two things – or more like two parts of the same thing.

Zara had led me into revealing my weak points: my family and my friends. And she’d engineered the situation so I’d paid a hundred-pound bar bill I could ill afford.

She’d manipulated me, just the way she used to, despite my determination not to let her. Come what may, I wasn’t going to let her do it again.

TWENTY-ONE

MAY 2011

‘Wow, Naomi!’ Amina, my flatmate, squealed when she saw me. ‘What the actual fuck are you wearing? And your hair…!’

She put down her cup of tea next to her laptop and doubled over laughing.

‘I know, right?’ I paused in my bedroom doorway, caught between shyness and amusement. ‘Is it too much?’

‘Depends what you’re doing. First date with Mr Might-be-Right? Get right back in there now and change. Fancy dress party? You’re all good.’

I turned back into my room and looked at myself in the mirror for the millionth time. My hair was gelled, back-combed and sprayed into wild spikes. My eyes were heavily ringed with black, my face even paler than usual thanks to thick ivory foundation. My lips were blood red. My tights were ripped below a tiny pleather skirt and my feet were squeezed into pointy, silver-buckled boots.

‘I think I’m all good,’ I said. ‘I’m off to Camden to see a Cure tribute band.’

‘That’s a relief.’ She picked up her tea again. ‘You’ll fit right in.’

‘So long as I can get there on the Tube without seeing anyone from work.’ I grimaced at my reflection, suddenly doubtful. ‘I’d never live it down.’

‘Frankly, they wouldn’t recognise you. Who are you going with, anyway?’ She eyed me beadily. ‘Do you have a whole circle of punk mates no one knows about?’

‘Negative. Just Patch, and he’s not a punk. We just like some of the same music.’

‘Patch? The one with the girlfriend?’

‘No – I mean, yes.’

‘Got to be one or the other.’

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