Page 8 of The Book Swap

“I made the worst outfit to try to hug you in,” she says, patting just above my bum, the only place not covered in cardboard.

“I miss her so much,” I say. “I thought it would get easier.”

“It might if you took my advice and actually spoke to someone.”

“That’s not fair,” I say through tears. “I tried that therapist you recommended. Dishy Rishi. His office stank of bleach and he left stupidly long pauses after I finished speaking.”

Georgia rolls her eyes. “Rishi’s one of the best out there, but you know he isn’t the only therapist in the world. There are literally thousands of us. Everyone’s training to be one these days.”

She gently turns me, so I’m no longer staring at the changing faces of my best friend. Behind me, the room is now packed full of people. Everyone who knew and loved Bonnie. The stage is lined with buckets, inviting extra donations throughout the night. In a few minutes there’s a talent show, which Georgia’s threatening to enter us both into.

There are already some people on the dance floor, and standing among them all is someone dressed as another book. It’s a way slicker outfit than mine, made from what looks like velvet. In what’s the most bizarre thing I’ve seen in a while, the book is hugging a baby and a baboon.

Georgia leads me to one of the round tables in the corner of the room, placing the rest of the bottle of wine in front of us. I nod toward her dress, which has fallen so low she’s close to exposing both, surprisingly pert, breasts.

“Have you had them done?” I ask, horrified.

She lifts her hand, pushing the bottom of her wig. “Flattered, but no. Used tit tape for the full Barbie effect.” She hoists her dress back up to chest level. “And don’t think compliments are going to stop me from asking,” she says. “What the fuck did you quit your job for?”

I shrug. In the last forty-eight hours I’ve started to wonder whether it was a moment of total insanity. Then I imagine walking back through those doors on Monday, or I think about how proud Bonnie would be, and I know I did the right thing.

“I just hated it. Charlotte made my life hell.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Erin. She was just the latest person you got to blame all the shit things in your life on.” She sounds exasperated, but the words sting.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mum. James. Derek. Charlotte. Even Bonnie. You do know no one except you is responsible for your life?” She lifts her hand and waves at one of our old teachers, dressed as Bon Jovi, as though what she’s just said is a casual throwaway comment.

“That’s not fair. Charlotte turned on me because she’s a bitch who—”

“Charlotte turned on you because you were a depressed hot mess for months and you refused to do anything about it. Still are, in fact.”

I open my mouth and close it again. Ready to defend the story I’ve told myself since Bonnie died.

“What are you going to do now?” Georgia softens her voice and looks at me with genuine concern. “I’m worried about you.”

I want to be sick. She’s asking the one question I haven’t dared ask myself because I have no idea what the answer is. “You need a plan, because otherwise I fear you might fester away in that disgusting little flat with your very bad-influence, lazy housemate, and reappear aged fifty, having wasted half your life and believing it’s all someone else’s fault.”

“Is this meant to be a positive, uplifting pep talk?”

“Don’t put me next on your blame list.”

“I get your fucking point,” I shout at her, downing some of my wine. She squeezes my hand.

“Can I suggest some things?” I don’t even bother replying because I know she’s going to carry on speaking either way. “Talk to someone about Bonnie. And your whole life if you want to. Make some sense of it all. And find a job that you actually bloody well enjoy for once, so I can stop getting those miserable messages every Sunday night.”

“That’s not fair. Of course you love your job. All you do is let other people talk and then they leave and you feel like you’ve fixed their lives for them.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that, but yes, it’s rewarding. Many jobs are. Find one.”

Bonnie’s parents take to the stage, her mum standing at the microphone dressed as a barbecue with a tong in each hand.

“Thank you, all of you, for once again being here to celebrate our Bonnie.” She swallows and looks to Bonnie’s dad, a baguette, who’s standing beside her clutching her arm. “We’re not surprised to see so many of you here, because we know how special our daughter was, but it’s nice to have it confirmed.” She smiles and there’s a small wave of laughter and agreement across the room. “Now let’s raise some money for a great cause while doing the thing Bonnie loved best...having fun.”

She raises her glass and we all lift our own. Everyone cheers.

The talent show begins, as always, with Bonnie’s two younger sisters doing a dance routine. What follows is everything from terrible magicians to mediocre singers to one of Bonnie’s colleagues from Voice Magazine belting out a pitch-perfect rendition of a Whitney Houston number. The applause is so loud, there’s no way the noise meter won’t pick her out as the winner.

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