had been both baffling and also completely believable when Meg announced, within six months of leaving university, that she had secured us both a placement at a national newspaper. That was the kind of power she had in those days, the kind that meant she could do anything and it should never surprise you.
She had met one of the editors at the members’ club she had been working at since moving to London; she shrugged when I pressed her on how she had got me a placement too.
‘But he hasn’t even met me …’ I countered reluctantly, trying to balance my gratitude with the sense that something was not right.
‘I sent him your CV.’
‘You don’t have my CV.’
‘And?’ She grinned, lifting her chin as she pulled on her cigarette, and I left the matter there, knowing how easy it was to write a fraudulent résumé. Knowing how willing people were to believe.
The wind snapped at our heels as we crossed the bridge, Meg leaning into me, the warmth of her body soothing my nerves. How I envied the ease with which she moved; how comfortable she was in her own skin, her nylon mini-skirt hitched around skinny thighs, thick black tights, DMs.
Noting my expression, she snatched my arm and squeezed it against her own. ‘I’m serious! You look hot. You’re like Maggie Gyllenhaal in that film David made us all watch in Freshers’ Week, but less slutty, obviously.’
We had still been practically strangers then, the three of us, wedged awkwardly together on cushions in the hallway of our shared house, watching Secretary on David’s laptop, busying our fingers with a bowl of nachos. Unaware of the roots that were taking hold, blind then to how tightly they would bind us together.
Feeling my cheeks flush, I changed the subject as we made our way through stiff automatic doors.
‘Have you been given any actual writing to do yet?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Just more transcriptions for the Arts desk, it’s bullshit. I tried to talk to the Environment guy about a story idea but he just fobbed me off.’
I tried to hide my relief.
‘Still it’s better than a real job, I suppose. For now, at least.’ She moved towards the door.
My nails pressed into my palms as the familiar panic rose in my chest, fingers searching for a ledge to break the fall.
For now? The thought of how much I had already spent on the month-long train ticket from Guildford to the Docklands – almost all of the little money I had saved while working double shifts at the bakery in town – all that I had already done, on the basis that there would be a paid job at the end of this, a career, a chance to get away, made my gut twist.
‘You don’t really think that?’ I tried to sound calmer than I felt. Despite three years of friendship, I still could not let Meg see the true extent of my need. Had she spotted it, the day we left our shared flat in Brighton, she heading to London to chase the career she had always known was rightfully hers, while I returned to Surrey, my face burning with the loss of a life that had always felt borrowed?
I pictured it now, the flat we shared at the top of a crumbling Regency town house, wedged beneath two more of its kind on a thin strip of side-street leading from St James’s Street down to the sea. I loved that flat, with its slanting floorboards and faded magnolia walls; I loved my bedroom, which overlooked the back of the house and a tiny courtyard below – more of a pit than a garden, a dry rectangle well speckled with cigarette butts and seagull feathers. I loved the way I could look out of the window from our battered Chipperfield sofa, onto Kemptown with its bars and pubs which throbbed with noise no matter what time of day or night, and not recognise a soul.
If the worst came to the worst, Meg had told me one night not long after we arrived in London, then she would simply go back to Newcastle. She would take bar work there and stay with her parents while she worked on the book she was destined to write. Though we both knew it would never come to that. Meg was one of those people who appeared to create the existence they wanted, without effort.
I imagined her mother, a shorter, squatter version of my friend – the same ready smile, fiery red hair. I thought of my own mother, thin with worry, her loss etched into the corners of her eyes. The years of silent dinners behind neatly pruned privets, hedging me in together with the memory of what I had done, or, rather, what I had not.
The smile had been pulled tighter than ever across my mother’s lips the day I returned home, the day university – and its promise of escape – came to a crushing end. It clawed at the corners of her eyes as she watched me placing the box of my possessions onto my bed, the room having been stripped of any trace of me the moment I had left. Just as she had purged any trace of Thomas from the house within days of him leaving us.
My breath sharpened as I thought of my parents. Them, the only alternative to this. An invisible tightening around my neck reminded me that I could not let this opportunity slip through my grasp.
Meg’s voice cut through my thoughts, steadying my heartbeat as we stepped into the foyer where a TV screen was playing the BBC News channel on the wall above the reception desk.
‘Here you go.’ The receptionist handed back to us the security passes we were made to collect daily and wear around our necks at all times. Looking down at the hollow outline of my face on the paper print-out, my eyes moved instinctively to the word ‘Temporary’.
We stepped into the lift and Meg moved her fingers to press the button for Floor 1, the newsroom, before changing her mind and pressing Floor 2 instead.
‘We’re at least having a quick fag before we go in,’ she said, stepping out of the lift.
The smell of stale smoke hit us before the doors had finished opening. Turning left into the smoking room, there were plastic chairs edging the walls, rectangular metal tubs strategically placed across the blue carpeted floor.
Meg leaned down to grab a copy of the morning’s paper from a pile by the door, before crossing the room towards a seat by the window.
The room was airless, years of nicotine clinging to every surface.
Silver bangles jarring against one another on her wrists, Meg pulled out a ten-box of Marlboro Lights, drawing one out for herself and another for me. The cigarette was thick between my fingers as I leaned into the flame, holding back my hair, which had recently been cut from waist to shoulder length in an attempt at sophistication.
‘That’s a fucking scoop,’ she said, pressing the fag between her teeth as she pulled her phone out of her pocket.
My eyes moved over the front page of the paper. Below the headline ‘Exclusive: Leading Charity in Cahoots With Arms Dealer’, my attention was drawn by a small black-and-white headshot of a young man with thick, dark hair grazing his neckline. Next to his face, there was the name of the reporter on the piece – Harry Dwyer.
Beside me, Meg’s phone beeped again, but I was distracted by the man’s face, the arch of his nose, the full curve of his lips.
‘It’s David. He’s started his job at that bank in Canary Wharf … wants to know if we’re up for a drink after work … Oi, are you listening?’
It took a moment for Meg’s words to register and when they did I felt the familiar dull ache in my
