When I’d walked them through the steps, which were, again, just a series of forward steps with some back steps to keep everyone on their toes, I put the music on.
‘Blimey, that is fast,’ said Annette, then she grinned wolfishly. ‘Gonna be interesting in heels and a strapless dress.’
She had a point. ‘I’ll make sure we get a slower version.’
It was quite a cardio workout, and probably one that was best attempted without quite so much lubrication, but we were having fun. And it was exactly what I needed. I was going to make sure I kept up my friendship with the girls even after the wedding. Hell, I might even suggest another ukulele night.
By ten, we decided that we were as good as we were ever going to be and too tired to keep going. I was also concerned that all the bouncing on my floor would keep my downstairs neighbour Mrs Hargreaves from sleeping. So, we opened another bottle and flopped down on the sofa to watchMy Big Fat Greek Wedding– Annette’s idea. I kept sneaking glances at Alice, worried that the movie might spook her. But she seemed fine.
We all cried during the wedding scene, which proved just how drunk we were.
The girls left at midnight and I shuffled around the flat putting things away and humming to myself.
I was loading the last plate into the dishwasher when the doorbell rang.
Odd.
Had one of them forgotten something? Or had Simon decided to come back? If it was the latter, my first urge was to ignore it.
But I’d promised myself to cut him some slack, so I bounded down the stairs and opened the door.
Standing on the step was Marcie. With a large guitar case.
Oh. My. God.
For a second I thought I was imagining things. But I wasn’t that drunk.
‘Good, you’re in,’ she said. ‘I knocked earlier, but no one answered.’
I gulped. ‘Marcie, how did you know where I live?’
‘We know plenty of people in common. And really, is that your most pressing question?’
She had a point. ‘What... what are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to give you your interview.’
She pushed past me and headed up the stairs, her guitar case banging against the bannister as she climbed up to my flat. This was surreal. What was weirder than having Marcie Tyler arrive at your flat at midnight? Having her arrive with a guitar.
She burst into the living room.
Oh God, it probably smelt of fish.I’d accidentally smudged a bit of taramasalata on the dining table earlier and hadn’t wiped it off properly.
‘Erm, can I get you a drink or something?’Shit. She was off alcohol. ‘I mean, I’ve just put the kettle on if you want a tea or coffee.’
If someone had told my younger self that at the age of thirty-four I would have Marcie Tyler sitting on my Ikea sofa, drinking instant coffee out of a chipped University of Exeter mug, I would have laughed.
But here she was, larger than life. Nerves were getting to me and I thought I was going to erupt into manic laughter any minute.
I pinched the soft flesh under my arm.Get a grip, Zoë.
‘So, are you serious? You’re here for the interview?’
‘It depends.’
I let out a slow breath. Another catch? I was so close it was killing me.
‘On what?’
