BooksBarbecue
Back When We Were Friends
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. 31
  6. 14
  7. 31
  8. 14
  9. 31
  10. 14
  11. 31
  12. 14
  13. 31
  14. 15
  15. 31
  16. 16
  17. 32
  18. 16
  19. 32
  20. 17
  21. 32
  22. 17
  23. 32
  24. 17
  25. 32
  26. 17
  27. 32
  28. 18
  29. 32
  30. 18
  31. 32
  32. 18
  33. 32
  34. 18
  35. 32
  36. 18
  37. 32
  38. 18
  39. 32
  40. 18
  41. 32
  42. 18
  43. 32
  44. 18
  45. 32
  46. 32
  47. 33
  48. 33
  49. 33
  50. Acknowledgments
  51. Discussion Questions
  52. Booklist

In the midst of this melodrama, I let out a giggle. She laughed too. The mattress shook beneath us as laughter rocked our bodies—the release valve for this moment we were too young to fully comprehend.

“I promise you,” I said, through new tears, these ones of joy.

31

now.

I could tell Heather was worked up from the second she opened her flat door.

“Fern! You’re here. I fear the risotto is ruined. It’s OK, there’s Deliveroo.”

I handed over my garish bunch of train station tulips. “I’m sorry I’m late. I swear Victoria Station was like The Last Train To Saigon.”

“Don’t worry. The risotto was ruined before you were late.” She strode down the communal hallway, forgetting to keep the fire doors open for me as I ran after her. “What were you doing at Victoria, anyway?”

We pushed into her delightful flat, greeted by the warmth of Farrow & Ball on the walls and the aroma of mushrooms in garlic sauce. Her wife, Katie, nodded hello from where she was making cocktails in a rose-gold shaker.

“I actually came from my hometown,” I said, putting my bag on the floor by the sofa. “I was meeting an old friend there today. It was very fucking surreal and I’m most glad for any alcohol being provided.”

Heather brandished the tulips to her wife and they swapped roles efficiently and silently—Heather shaking the margaritas, while Katie located a vase. I stepped into the kitchen area and spotted a congealed gray mush in a saucepan on their stove.

“Oh my God, your hometown was hilarious.” Heather started pouring the cocktail into frosted glasses that Katie had rimmed with salt. “Do you remember when I came to stay in the summer after first year? Before we flew to Thailand? You took me to that awful club.”

“I mean, Selfridges is an institution.”

Heather spluttered with laughter. “They played ‘My Hips Don’t Lie’ three times in one night,” she told Katie, who smiled but didn’t laugh. “Three.”

“As I said, an institution.”

“And, there was literally not one shop or restaurant or café that wasn’t a chain. Not one.”

“OK, Heather, we weren’t all lucky enough to grow up in fucking Primrose Hill.”

“My parents bought their house back when it—”

“—only cost ten pee and a hand job to the estate agent. I know, I know. And now it’s worth twelve billion pounds.”

She grinned and carried the drinks over to their circle of velvet chairs. “Fucking boomers, right? It’s not fair.”

“Hmm.”