Free The Love of Her Life by Harriet Evans Page B

time ago, isn’t it.’
    ‘Yep,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s just a shame. We should get you two together before you have to go back, you know.’ She looked Kate over, appraisingly, like she was a prize heifer. ‘You haven’t seen him since – how long?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. Keep your voice light, she told herself. ‘Is he –’ she opened her eyes wide. ‘Is he well, though?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Zoe nodded. ‘He’s OK. Got a bit of grey hair. Works too hard. Doesn’t talk about stuff much. But he’s OK. I know he’d love to see you.’
    Kate looked around the bright, cosy room, feeling cold suddenly, and very tired.
    ‘It’s weird talking about this,’ Zoe said, sighing. ‘I never talk about it, about all of us any more. I’ll have to make the most of you while you’re here. It’ll be a while won’t it?
    Perhaps you’ll love it back here so much you won’t go back. Yay!’
    ‘I am going back,’ said Kate. ‘Seriously. I love it there. I’ve got a new life, you know.’
    ‘I know you have,’ said Zoe. She crinkled her nose. ‘You needed it. I like thinking of you leading this super-glam New York life, meeting up with Betty for cocktails, running around like Sarah Jessica Parker. Sort of means I can’t hate you for not being here, Katy.’
    Since her last birthday party had consisted of her mother, stepfather, and the Cohens (from down the corridor), and Maurice the doorman having a slice of cake out on the sidewalk, Kate didn’t know what to say to this. She smiled and nodded, sagely, as if hinting that a life full of incident and drama lay waiting for her across the ocean.
    At eleven o’clock, Kate left, by then a little worse for the wine. As she was putting her coat on, Zoe opened the door and said,
    ‘Bye darl,’ Zoe said. ‘I love you. It’s so good to have you back.’
    ‘It’s good to be back,’ Kate said and then, that moment, as she hugged Zoe, it was.
    When Kate got back home, the letter from Charly was still in her bag. She waited till she was in bed, face washed, warm chunky bedsocks from Bloomingdales, which her mother had given her last Christmas, enclosing her feet. Her old bedroom smelt faintly of familiar things, Coco perfume and peonies. Outside, someone somewhere was yelling at someone else, or perhaps at no-one, and away beyond her the city flickered, lights gradually going off one by one, still at its heart never asleep. Kate smoothed her hands over the duvet and blinked, the fatigue of the day finally catching up with her as her fingers fluttered on the glue of the envelope.
       
    She drew out a letter. A letter and a photo. It was of Charly and Kate, dressed up before the office Christmas party, their first year at the magazine. Kate winced at her ill-advised Spice Girls-era black clompy platform boots, black miniskirt, waistcoat and hair in a high ponytail, and then, almost greedily, her eyes drank in Charly, glorious as always, her long, tousled hair tumbling around her tanned shoulders, the little black dress with spaghetti straps, the gorgeous, still-covetable knee-high black suede boots. It had been so long since she’d seen her, she’d forgotten how beautiful she was, how hilariously different the two of them were.
    Hilarious, yes. That they’d been friends, so close you couldn’t slide a finger between them, so obsessed with each other it was almost like a relationship, so heartstoppingly sad that she hadn’t seen Charly for years, that Kate rocked back against the bookshelf, as if a ray of something had just shot out and hit her in the chest. That was the effect Charly still had on her, nearly eight years on, all those years since they’d first met.

    Dear Kate
    It’s been a while, hasn’t it. How are you?
    I’m fine I suppose, working hard, not.
    I found this photo of you and me at the Christmas party, the year you started at Woman’s World, thought you’d like to see it? What did we look like back then??!!
    Kate I’m writing to say