‘Oh, shush,’ she replies. ‘I got a good price; the owner needed a quick sale. I think he was on the run or something. I didn’t ask in case he thinks I know too much.’
Lauren always plays down just how well she’s doing, financially. Like somehow, it’s crass to admit it. Or maybe she just didn’t want to shove this massive flat in my face while I’m currently living out of a suitcase.
‘Want the tour?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I bloody do,’ I reply, throwing my bag down. ‘Lead theway.’
‘God, this place has everything,’ I remark, as she shows me around. Her main bedroom is twice the size of mine. ‘You even have heated floors! What sorcery is this?’
We go down a small set of stairs which leads to the huge open-plan living room and kitchen.
‘You have an island?’ I say. ‘We don’t even have room for a table in our kitchen. You’re making me incredibly jealous here.’
Lauren opens a bottle of wine with a corkscrew shaped like a pirate. She bought that when we shared a flat at uni. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she tells me. ‘All it takes is one bad dye job from me and I’m back to living above the Tesco Express again.’
‘Hey, I liked that flat,’ I tell her, as she hands me a glass of red. ‘There was a certain charm to only being able to fit one person in the kitchen at any given time.’
She grins. ‘That microwave in my bedroom was an absolute lifesaver. Reeked, though. Never heat up a curry in a room the size of a postage stamp.’
I laugh. ‘When Ed and I moved into our house, we only had a microwave for about six months. I caught him trying to make toast in it once. Idiot.’
‘Well, I’m glad you brought him up first,’ she says, gesturing at me to follow her to the living room. ‘I mean, I’d ask how you’re coping but, well, you’re here and you’re not sleeping.’
‘How did you know that?’
She plonks herself down on a huge grey couch. ‘Your eyes brought their own bags with them.’
‘All right, fine. Maybe I’m not sleeping too well but it’s to be expected, right?’ I reply, sitting beside her. Sweet lord, the sofa is comfy. ‘It’d be weird if I wasn’t missing him. I mean, even after I murdered you for this flat, I’d still think of you fondly.’
‘Glad you still have your sense of humour,’ she says, sipping her wine. ‘It’ll come in handy when you’re writing your Tinderprofile.’
‘If you’re going to make fun of me all night, you’d better have snacks.’
Three glasses of red and a sharing bag of Kettle crisps later, I finally admit to Lauren how much I miss Ed.
‘You know, I thought throwing myself into work would help,’ I tell her. ‘But that’s literally all I’ve been doing for the past three years, anyway. So nothing has changed– except that I have no one to sound off to when I get home.’
‘Yeah, I get that,’ she replies. ‘But– and no offence– that must have made you a barrel of laughs to live with. . .’
She’s right. I never realised just how much I unloaded on to Ed and how patient he must have been to sit there and listen, especially to the inane drivel I came out with night after night.
‘I’ve blown it,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll be sprawled out on my side of the bed, unburdened, probably speaking sexy German to Carly while she plays her goddamn clarinet in the buff. I can see it now.“Oh, ja, Carly, das ist gut. Ich komme!”’
‘Google translate?’
I nod. We spent five years in the same French class. I know as much (or as little) German as she does.
She giggles. ‘I very much doubt that. And I doubt that you’ve blown it either. You’re just going through a rough patch. He adores the shit out of you. That’ll never change.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I reply. ‘I told him I didn’t want to split up anymore, remember? He’s the one who decided it’s what we needed.’
‘So maybe you need some big, grand gesture,’ she suggests. ‘Like when Kevin Costner took a bullet for Whitney Houston inThe Bodyguard.’
I pour the last of the wine, laughing. ‘OK, A– that was his job; and B– no one is trying to shoot Ed. Not that I know of, anyway.’
‘Well, you should do something,’ she replies. ‘You can’t just livein an Airbnb and translate basic German forever.’
‘I know, I know,’ I concede. ‘I’ll figure something out.’
