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‘No one in my contacts would send a woman dick pics,’ I stated. ‘I’m sure of it.’

I was not sure of it.

‘So it is written, so shall it be,’ Sumi declared. ‘Thou sendeth a group text to unknownst numbers and ye shall receiveth pics of dicks. Even I get dick pics and talk about a waste of time.’

I grabbed my glass of wine and took a deep sip. ‘You’re so lucky to be a lesbian.’

‘And don’t I know it,’ she agreed.

By ten o’clock, I was safely tucked up in bed with Starting Over, slightly buzzed, learning how to tap into my limitless ass-kicking optimism and waiting for my phone to stop vibrating. The shed was feeling more and more like a Twilight Zone version of home – from the Forever Friends jewellery box to the Groovy Chick pillowcase – but it was all just a little bit off. To make matters even more confusing, just as I got into bed, Mum popped in to put all my dryer-shrunk clothes away in my drawers and, at some point in the day, Dad had been by to hook up an ancient VHS to the useless television. I now had the thrilling choice of watching any number of mid-nineties Disney films, six episodes from season two of Sex in the City, or a live rendition of Les Misérables Mum had taped off BBC about twenty years ago and, for some reason, protected with her life. I’d never had it so good.

As the words in my book began to blur together, I gave up on reading, sliding the book down the slender gap between the bed and the wall and checking my morning alarm for at least the fifteenth time.

‘See?’ I told the ceiling of the shed as I wedged my phone underneath my pillow. ‘I am not a failed loser who is going to die alone, I am loved by my friends and family and an in-demand professional who is open to love and new experiences and also drinking wine on Mondays.’

I hiccupped and smiled happily, hugging my pillow tightly as I closed my eyes and went straight to sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ten o’clock the following morning, I sat, patiently waiting in the waiting room, wearing a pair of trousers left over from the turn of the millennium that the internet assured me were due to come back into fashion any second now and my mother’s second-best shirt. There had been no time to shop for a better interview outfit and since Dad had destroyed all my nicest things, I was forced to be a trendsetter.

PodPad, according to the research I’d done on my way into town, was no longer the tiny startup I’d rejected three years ago but a terribly cool company that made terribly cool podcasts about terribly cool things, like paleo diets and radical politics and serial killers. People loved podcasts about serial killers. Probably a societal red flag, I thought, reading through the list on their website: Murderville, The Killer Nextdoor. Murdered to Death. Probably something we ought to be more worried about, as if we didn’t have enough to be worried about already.

A tall, gangly, red-haired man, who looked like he’d shaved for the very first time that morning, stuck his head out the door. He glanced at me once, frowned and desperately searched the otherwise empty room for someone who was not me.

‘Ros?’ he asked, eventually giving up his pointless quest.

‘Hi.’ I stood and held out my hand. He took in my trousers, shiny shoes and freshly ironed shirt before taking my hand, shaking it and turning away with an audible sigh.

Off to a brilliant start.

‘This way,’ he said, leading me out of the waiting room and into a very different environment. I looked back through the door and blinked; it was like walking into hipster Narnia. Gone were the bare walls and hard plastic chairs, and in their place was a farm full of happy-looking people clicking away at computers, sitting on bold, colourful sofas, lounging next to gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows that let in all the light. They even had the requisite ping pong table that seemed to be a contractual obligation in modern media offices. It meant this was a Cool Company and I had always wanted to work for a Cool Company. They probably had a fridge full of beers that you could have whenever you fancied and someone who came in on Tuesdays to make tacos.

‘Danielle says hi,’ the man said, his hands gripping his upper arms, squeezing an assortment of colourful but seemingly unconnected tattoos. I saw Mickey Mouse in his Sorcerer’s Apprentice outfit; a Pepsi logo; an Indian-looking symbol I was sure I recognized from a yoga class; and a face that was perhaps supposed to be Kurt Cobain’s but, under the tension of the man’s grip, looked more like Postman Pat’s. ‘She’s in the New York office for the next couple of months so I’m looking after content while she’s away. She said you’ve just come back from the States, yeah?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed, desperate not to sound as nervous as I felt. ‘Just got ba—’

‘And you were working for APR, yeah?’ he interrupted. ‘Cool, cool. My favourite radio station. Not that I really listen to radio.’

‘Thanks, it was a really good pla—’

‘You were a producer? That’s choice.’

Apparently he was going to interview himself on my behalf.

‘Dream job, right there,’ he said, stopping suddenly and perching his very tiny arse on the edge of a desk. ‘Why did you leave?’

I looked around the office, with its bright colours and happy, busy people, and I wanted to be part of it so badly.

‘It was time for a change,’ I said. No need to go into specifics unless specifics were asked for. ‘I learned a lot there but I’m ready for the next challenge.’

He considered my answer as I squeezed the strap of my handbag tighter and tighter and tighter. Was he really going to interview me in the middle of the office, in front of everyone? I cast my eyes around the room and saw everyone pretending they weren’t watching.

‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ the man said, staring hard into my eyes. My hand rose to swipe at any stray mascara that might have migrated where it was not wanted. ‘We need a producer ASAP. Someone who can think fast and work hard. Danielle says that’s you. Is that you, Ros?’

‘I think so?’ I said hesitantly, taken aback by his sudden intensity.

‘We don’t do “I think so” here,’ he said, eyes burning directly into mine. ‘We do passion.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, coughing to cover an awkward attack of the lols that threatened to burble up and out of my mouth. ‘I just realized I didn’t catch your name.’

‘That’s because I didn’t tell you my name,’ he replied, re-crossing his arms over his T-shirt and covering up a slogan that was either very funny or very rude, depending on how you felt about vegans. ‘What’s your deal? Who is Ros? What does she want?’

I’d been working in radio for ten years and no one had ever asked me what my deal was. They’d asked me about my experience, they’d discussed my qualifications and, once, a breakfast presenter had asked for my bra size but you really couldn’t get away with things like that any more, thank god.

‘You want to know about my deal?’ I repeated, hoping I hadn’t heard him properly.

‘What’s your deal?’ he said again, karate-chopping his own hand to emphasize each word. ‘Why do you want to work at PodPad?’

‘Because I’m truly passionate about sharing the truth with people and I believe radi— I mean, podcasting, is the greatest medium we have to communicate the stories that matter to the people who need to hear them,’ I said carefully. It was a never-fail interview line but he just carried on staring at me, not speaking or moving.

‘Why do you want to work at PodPad?’ I asked, starting to get annoyed. ‘And seriously, what is your name?’

‘We’ll get to names if I decide to offer you a position,’ he said, completely ignoring my first question with the hint of a smirk on his face.

For the first time in my life, I longed for an awkward, stilted interview across an MDF desk conducted in an HR dungeon by someone called Brenda. I had taken my Brendas for granted and I was regretting it. You always knew where you were with a Brenda. Was I wasting my time? Why would a company like PodPad want to hire me anyway?

‘I’m here because I need a job,’ I said plainly. It was cards on the table time. ‘I’m thirty-two, I’m living in a shed in my parents’ back garden, no one is hiring in radio between here and the Outer Hebrides and, if I don’t get a job soon, I’m going to have to retrain as either an optician or an international assassin.’

The redhead’s smirk grew into a fully fledged grin.

‘Why an optician?’

‘Seems like a good job,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Decent hours, good money. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting in little dark rooms so that seems like transferrable skill. Oh, and some opticians work in Boots and I love Boots.’

‘And international assassin?’

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

‘I like to travel?’

‘But you’d have to kill people.’

‘Every job’s got its downside,’ I reasoned.

We stood face to face in the bright, busy office for slightly too long a moment and stared at each other in silence until the redhead stuck out his fist. For a split second, I thought it was going to punch me and instinctively shirked away. And then I realized he wanted me to fist-bump him and I died inside.

‘I’m Ted,’ he said as I reluctantly tapped my knuckles against his. ‘Welcome to the team.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘To our working girl! Wait, no, that sounds terrible.’

Adrian raised a glass of sparkling wine while Lucy and Sumi cheered loudly enough to attract the attention of everyone in the bar who wasn’t wearing AirPods. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that many people.

‘If I hadn’t got this job, it would have been a very real possibility,’ I replied as we clinked our glasses together. ‘Not sure I’d have made a lot of money though.’

As soon as I’d messaged my friends to let them know the PodPad interview was a success, they insisted we all get together for a celebratory dinner that evening, just like old times. The only downside was, they also insisted we meet at Good Luck Bar, despite my protestations. The food was amazing, Lucy said. It was the most convenient place for everyone, Sumi insisted. And John always took a chunk off the bill, Adrian added. And so, there we were, installed in a baby-pink velvet booth that made me feel as though we were sitting on a particularly comfortable blancmange, but it was worth it to have the three of them together at such short notice. I hadn’t seen them all together in one place since the last time I’d been back for Christmas, almost two years ago and that was far too long to go without your best friends.

‘Tell us about the show you’re producing,’ Lucy said, full of encouragement as usual as she topped up my water.

‘I don’t actually know much about it,’ I admitted. ‘They were all so busy today they didn’t really tell me anything. I’ve got my induction tomorrow. When you work for a network like that, you could be doing a million different things, it’s so exciting.’

‘I can’t believe you found such an amazing job so quickly,’ Adrian said with a congratulatory punch in the arm. Adrian and I had known each other since we were babies. His parents had lived next door to mine until his granddad died when we were fifteen and they moved into his fancy pile of bricks twenty minutes down the road. ‘What happened with the old one, anyway?’

‘Oh, it’s just …’ I opened my mouth, looking for the words. They were my best friends, I could tell them, surely?

‘She missed us so much she had to come home,’ Sumi interjected loudly. ‘And now she’s on to bigger and better things.’

I threw her a grateful look and agreed with a nod.

‘I’m very happy for you, although I was hoping you’d slack off for a while and hang out with me,’ Adrian said, throwing his arm around my shoulders. ‘I hardly ever see these two, always too busy for me.’

‘Some of us have to work for a living,’ I replied, needling him gently. ‘Some of us don’t have houses bought for us by our parents.’

‘You kind of do,’ Sumi reasoned with a grin.

‘Show me the photos again,’ insisted Lucy, her lovely face shining. ‘I can’t believe your dad built it for you, it’s so sweet. Like a grown-up Wendy house.’

‘Do you think the Lost Boys made her a compostable toilet?’ Sumi asked sweetly.

‘Where’s the waitress?’ I asked, keen to change the subject even as Sumi rustled around in my handbag, searching for my phone. ‘I’m starving to death over here. A working woman has to eat.’

‘Got to order at the bar,’ Adrian replied as Sumi and Lucy pored over pictures of my shed. ‘Is that a framed photo of Justin Timberlake?’

‘Is that a Groovy Chick duvet cover?’ Lucy asked. ‘Oh my god, what a flashback.’

‘I’ll go,’ I offered, shuffling out of the booth, taking a menu with me. ‘Be right back.’

Pitching up at the bar, I earned a welcoming smile from the same waitress I’d met the night before.

‘You’re Sumi’s friend,’ she stated, reaching an amiable hand across the bar. ‘I’m Camille.’

‘Ros.’ I navigated my arm through the taps to return her firm handshake. ‘Hello again.’

‘I’ll let John know you’re here before you order,’ she asked, pointing at the menu in my hand. ‘Chef’s trying out some specials I know he’ll want you all to try. You lot are our official guinea pigs.’

I glanced behind her into the kitchens and saw tall, dark and angry from the night before, deep in conversation with an equally tall, very pretty blonde. ‘Don’t worry,’ I insisted, politely trying to avoid another confrontation. ‘Looks like he’s busy.’

‘With her?’ Camille turned up her tiny nose with ready indiscretion. ‘She won’t be staying long. Fingers crossed.’

‘Girlfriend?’ I asked. They were talking intently but they definitely didn’t give off a colleague vibe.

‘The wife.’ She made little air quotes with her fingers and, from the look on her face, it seemed as though there wasn’t much love lost between them. I couldn’t help but be curious.

‘Does she work here?’

‘Hmm,’ she confirmed, looking over at the two of them as the blonde laughed at something we couldn’t hear. I inched my bag up my shoulder and watched as she picked a fleck of dust from his shoulder. ‘When she feels like it.’

I kept one eye on John and his wife from a safe distance. What if he’d told her how I walked in on him in the bathroom? I was too British to live with that shame. And how was it that they were both so tall? Did they meet on a dating app for giants? Shouldn’t they both be with shorter people to try and share those genes around? Their kitchen had to be amazing, they could both reach all the cupboards. What a gift. Before I realized I was staring, John looked up and caught my eye. I switched my gaze to the menu, boring holes into the heavy paper and reading our selections out to Camille.

‘I’ll have it all out as soon as,’ she said as she tapped it all into the iPad in front of her. ‘Nice to meet you properly, Ros.’

‘Nice to meet you too,’ I said, catching her boss’s eye again and wishing I could say the same for him.

‘Remember when our idea of a dream meal was a fish finger sandwich and an entire box of potato waffles?’ I said loudly, once I was safely back at the table. ‘Oh, to be twenty-two again.’

‘You couldn’t pay me to go back to my twenties,’ Adrian declared. ‘Not for every fish finger on the face of the earth. Too many fuck-ups, too many lessons learned the hard way.’

‘Nor me, I’m so glad life is easier now,’ Sumi agreed, even though she’d taken four Nurofen Plus since she’d arrived and had dark circles under her eyes that would have had Nosferatu asking if she was feeling OK. ‘I couldn’t go through it again. All those hours studying? No one taking you seriously? The five years it took to convince my grandmother I was gay? No thank you.’

‘You work every hour god sends, you constantly complain about the other partners taking the piss out of you and your gran still thinks you’re just waiting for the right man,’ I reminded her. ‘Lucy? Back me up.’

‘I did love my twenties,’ she agreed, running her palm over her belly in soothing circles. ‘But, you know.’

I did know. We all knew. Lucy was the most pregnant pregnant woman that had ever existed.

‘If you had to relive one year over again, which one would you choose?’ I asked. They all muttered and shrugged. ‘I would be twenty-eight in a heartbeat,’ I said, answering my own question. ‘All of us living together, loving my job, not having to worry whether or not Friends is problematic …’

‘Cough, straight white privilege, cough,’ Sumi spluttered. Lucy immediately reached out to rub her back as though she really had a cough and I smothered a smile with my hand.

‘Not to mention that’s when you met Pa—’ Adrian began before he squealed and grabbed himself under the table. Someone had clearly given him a swift kick. ‘Ow, what was that for?’

‘We don’t. Mention. Him,’ said Sumi, shooting a warning look in Adrian’s direction.

‘Oh, come on,’ I said with a light laugh even as I felt myself flush. ‘It’s fine. It’s the past. I’m not going to start sobbing if someone says his name.’

‘Really?’ Lucy asked, one eye on me and my steak knife.

‘It’s been years,’ I laid it on as thick as I could. ‘Do I wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t taken the job in America? Yes. Was he the love of my life? Probably. Is this a conversation I want to have right now or ever? No.’

They all gazed back at me, the same doubtful expression on three different faces.

‘I am completely and utterly over Patrick Parker,’ I declared. ‘I am fine.’

‘Good, I’m glad to hear it,’ Sumi replied. ‘He led you up and down the garden path so many times it was ready for repaving.’

‘He was always all right with me,’ Adrian said. ‘I liked him.’

‘You mean you were totally in love with him because he got you tickets to the FA Cup Final,’ I corrected. Adrian didn’t argue.

‘I remember the first time we met him,’ Lucy said, pressing her hand on top of mine. ‘You brought him to that Christmas party and I thought, oh gosh, what a stone-cold fox. But I still think you did the right thing by leaving. You’d have regretted it if you hadn’t.’

‘You definitely did the right thing,’ Sumi agreed. ‘Imagine if you’d turned down an amazing job in America for a man.’

‘Imagine,’ I agreed, as if I didn’t imagine it all the time.

‘Everyone has a Patrick,’ Adrian reasoned. ‘Someone you’ll always wonder about, imagine what might have been. You’re contractually obliged as a human. He’s the one that got away.’

‘More like a bullet dodged,’ Sumi muttered into her drink. ‘I never saw the appeal myself.’

‘He was very clever,’ Lucy answered on my behalf. ‘And he was a writer, that’s very alluring.’

‘And he was incredibly sexy,’ Adrian added as we all gave him a look. ‘What? A straight man can’t say when another straight man is fit as? I’m secure in my masculinity, Patrick was a sexy man.’

‘It wasn’t just a physical thing,’ I said, twisting a strand of hair between my fingers. ‘His writing was beautiful and he was passionate and confident and—’

‘He was horny and arrogant and up his own arse,’ Sumi corrected. ‘But then that’s always been your type.’

‘Patrick isn’t why I’d go back to being twenty-eight, anyway,’ I said, not wanting to argue about it. She wasn’t necessarily wrong, I did have a type and that type was terrible. ‘Twenty-eight is the perfect age. People stop treating you like you’re too young to be taken seriously but you’re not too old either, there’s still so much potential to do things. Or undo things.’

‘Like terrible romantic decisions,’ Adrian suggested brightly. ‘And liver damage.’

‘It wasn’t terrible with Patrick,’ I said, my voice cracking just a little. ‘Until the end.’

‘Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s the past,’ Sumi held up her hands to wrap up that conversation. ‘You can’t go back, even if you wanted to.’

‘Who would want to? We’re all killing it,’ Adrian replied. Me and the girls exchanged a look. All of us? ‘Well bloody done on getting a new job so soon.’

‘I knew she’d find something right away, she’s brilliant,’ Sumi said proudly before she leaned across the table to smile at my oldest friend. ‘But what about you, Adrian, had any more thoughts about getting one of those job-type jobs like the rest of us?’

‘Lucy hasn’t got a job!’ he protested.

‘I’m on maternity leave,’ she exclaimed, clutching her belly to protect it from his accusations. ‘You try giving people a facial when you’ve got a belly bigger than Santa’s and you have to go for a wee every fifteen minutes.’

‘Good try, Adrian,’ I said with a smile. ‘When was the last time you had a job?’

‘I work!’ he insisted. ‘I drove for Uber last year, remember?’

A shiver ran down my spine as I imagined Adrian pulling up as my Uber driver. He was the worst driver on the face of the Earth. It would be like getting into a taxi driven by Mr Bean after he’d taken a Glastonbury’s worth of Molly.

‘And I’m working on my screenplay again.’

We all groaned as one.

‘My baby is going to be doing its GCSEs before you get that thing finished,’ Lucy predicted. ‘If not its degree.’

‘As if your kid is getting into university,’ he replied with a snippy grin.

Lucy shrugged and carried on stroking her stomach. Lucy never rose to anything. Lucy was an actual saint.

I listened as they bickered back and forth, laughing and poking and prodding at each other, just like they always did. Lucy beamed as she cradled her belly and, for a moment, I felt a glow of familiar, old happiness. A tug back to a time I thought had gone by. Starting Over, much like Sumi, said you should never go back, that your old life was the past and the past was over, but I wasn’t so sure. My old life was sitting right around this table and it looked pretty good to me.

‘Before I forget, Mum and Dad are having a wedding anniversary thing on Saturday night,’ Adrian said, inhaling deeply on a Marlboro Gold outside the bar as soon as Lucy and Sumi were out of sight. There was every chance he was the last person I knew who still smoked actual cigarettes. ‘Will you come? They’ve been asking after you.’

‘Are Lucy and Sumi coming?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Lucy has a Creepy Dave thing and Sumi has a Jemima thing. She’s off to Madrid to build a cathedral or something so they’re going to visit for the weekend.’

Sumi’s girlfriend was an architect, which meant she was very clever, very rich and an endless source of exciting minibreaks. I was sure there were many wonderful things about being in a relationship but having a lifetime-long reason to get out of doing things you really didn’t want to do had to be right up there with the best of them.

‘Come on, Ros, it’ll be a laugh,’ Adrian said with a wheedling whine.

‘No offence to your parents but it absolutely will not,’ I said, rummaging around in my bag for chewing gum. The hake crepe that Lucy had demanded had left a very unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth, which wasn’t too surprising since it had tasted very unpleasant. Fish finger sandwiches were definitely better. ‘Surely you’d rather take someone who might actually have sex with you afterwards?’

‘Yes, of course I would,’ he replied without so much as blinking. ‘But I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m the new Adrian, I don’t do that any more.’

‘Why?’ I asked, suspicious.

‘Because I’m only interested in forming a deep and meaningful relationship with someone I care about,’ he said, pouting. ‘I’m a reformed character, Ros, I haven’t had a shag in ages.’

I gave him a questioning look.

‘Fine, it’s been a slow summer and I haven’t had any offers,’ he admitted. ‘But please come, it’s their ruby wedding anniversary, it’s a big deal. There’s going to be an ungodly amount of food and drink and you know you want to.’

I really didn’t want to but I couldn’t say no. It wasn’t as if I had anything else to do and Adrian would cross hot coals for me if I asked.

‘Ros?’ he wheedled. He took one last draw on his cigarette, stamping it out as a black Prius with a glowing Uber badge pulled up beside us. I let out a very heavy sigh and nodded. ‘Fantastic,’ he said as he opened the car door and hopped inside. ‘Come any time after seven, can’t wait. See you Saturday.’

Without the money for a taxi, I wandered back down the street towards the tube station. It had been so good to see my friends but I couldn’t help but feel a little empty as I took myself off home instead of linking arms with the others and laughing all the way back to our shared house. The late-night milk runs, doing our makeup in each other’s rooms, snuggling up together on the sofa to watch a film. I couldn’t think of a time that I’d been happier. Now they had new homes to go to, new partners to snuggle up with. But not me.

Just like everyone else who happened to be walking alone down a busy city street at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, I automatically slid my hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I was still getting replies to my texts: my great-aunt who hadn’t realized I’d been away, my university friend Alison who wanted to know if I’d accepted Jesus as my Lord and Saviour since the last time she’d seen me (at our ten-year reunion with me hugging one of the student union toilets after a regrettable pint of snakebite and black). I wondered what new messages might have arrived since I’d last checked.

And then I saw it.

My heart pounded, my stomach lurched and I started to sweat, a horrible conviction that I was about to see the hake pancake again washing over me. I stuttered out of the flow of people on the street and leaned against a cold stone wall, staring at my phone, quite sure I was seeing things, quite sure it would disappear. But it didn’t. It stayed right where it was, shining up at me and willing me to open it.

I held my breath.

I opened the message.

Two words.

Hello, stranger

The text was from Patrick.