Don clapped him on the back. ‘Things will work out, Mo. They always do, right, Rhona?’
‘No! That’snotright!’ Rhona scraped her chair out abruptly and stood, her green fuzzy jumper giving her the look of an angry cactus. ‘If there’s something you really want, orsomeoneyou really want, you have to go after it, or them, and give it your best shot. It doesn’t always work out, but trying—properlytrying—and failing is a hell of a lot better than living your life wondering what could’ve been if you’d pulled your fucking finger out.’
Mo and Don watched her, open-mouthed, against a backdrop of billowing pasta steam.
‘I treated her like shit,’ said Mo, eventually. ‘I guess I can’t expect her to forgive me because of a song.’
‘Exactly!’ Rhona threw her hands up. ‘The song was beautiful, Mo, don’t get me wrong. It was magic. But I think, given the circumstances, the guns you pulled out possibly weren’t quite big enough.’
Mo pressed his fingers into his eye sockets and sighed. ‘Right. You’re right.’
‘Itoldyou theLove, Actuallyairport dash was the way to go.’
‘Rhona, I was in a hole when she left,’ said Mo miserably. ‘I could barely get myself out of bed, let alone to the airport.’
Rhona walked around the table to cover Mo’s hand with her own. ‘Are you still in the hole?’
Mo’s heart broke a little under her concerned gaze. Rhona had been his rock through the last few weeks without even knowing what it was all about. ‘It’s not as deep,’ he said.
‘Well, then. Perhaps you could think about bringing out the bigger guns, now. I’d recommend cannons.’
‘I hate to interrupt the battle planning, but dinner’s ready,’ said Don, spooning out five plates of ravioli.
Mo took his plate to the table and sat down as Miles and Carly bowled down the stairs. He piled some fresh basil and parmesan on top of his pasta and leaned sideways into Miles, sitting next to him, to let Don refill his glass.
Conversation swept around the table as they ate, jumping from one topic to the next, but Mo could only focus on one thing: Netta. A plan started taking shape, and the guns were massive. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
Chapter Fifty-Six
NETTA
Netta stood on the front steps of the Espy and hugged her friends goodbye. Her fortieth birthday had been celebrated with her nearest and dearest in the dim lighting of one of the restaurants that now sat deep within the hallowed belly of the former pub. Its innards had been carved out and revamped into a place that barely resembled the Espy Netta remembered from her twenties—the one with the perpetually sticky carpet and only two wines on the list: red or white.
Freya was the last to hug her. ‘Happy fortieth, you old cow. You sure you don’t want to share my Uber?’ Her eyes were lit by one too many glasses of wine topped off by a cocktail in the bar on the upper level.
‘Nah, I want to walk,’ said Netta, holding her friend steady as she wavered on the steps. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’
Freya pointed her index finger so close to Netta’s nose it made her eyes cross. ‘Don’t talk to strangers,’ she said. ‘And text me when you get home safe.’
‘Likewise.’ Netta pointed to a silver SUV idling out the front. ‘Is that your ride?’
‘It is now!’ Freya gave her one last squeeze. ‘Forty’s going to be your best year yet, Netta. You’ll see.’ She loosened her grip. ‘Christ. I hope I don’t spew on the way home. That cocktail was brutal.’
As Freya wobbled her way down the steps, Netta gathered the gift bags at her feet, stopping for a moment to take in the view. Crowds of people gathered either side of the staircase and the water of St Kilda Beach sparkled in the moonlight, palm trees dancing in the balmy night breeze. The smell of beer and food and cigarettes mingled in the air and the deep thrum of music from the dance floor inside sent a gentle vibration through Netta’s chest. Tonight had been great, but she couldn’t wait to get home to some comfy pants and quiet.
She made her way west along The Esplanade, passing much younger revellers who were just on their way out. Netta smiled to herself. That had been her once. On an early night, she’d start getting ready at nine and be on the dance floor by ten thirty. Just thinking about it now made her exhausted.
The footpath swooped right into Fitzroy Street, crowded with people out for a good time. Netta stopped to drop some coins into a homeless man’s hat and pat his dog, glanced wistfully at a couple in first-date mode in the front window of a restaurant, and stopped at the 7-Eleven for a Magnum to enjoy on the couch—a consolation prize for not drinking. She let her mind settle, the ringing in her ears abating the further she walked.
I’m forty.I’ve got a job I love, I have my own place, I have great friends. The other stuff will come.
Forty is a birthday, not a use-by date.
Forty is a birthday, not a use-by date.
Forty is a birthday, not a use-by date.
The mantra played on a loop in her mind, feebly attempting to distract her from homing in on the things she didn’t have. The things she’d spent her life merrily taking for granted that she’d have locked down by forty. A relationship. A little family.
