Free The Last Time I Saw You by Eleanor Moran Page B

is.”
    They’re professional four by eights, of her and a wriggly-looking Nathaniel. Jules is wearing a gray shift dress that has been her go-to outfit for years, and is admittedly looking a little too snug post-pregnancy. She’s smiling, but the smile’s gotten lost in translation—it’s gone crooked and toothy—and her hair is welded against her head in an odd pudding-bowl. For a very attractive woman she does look—I don’t know, but she doesn’t look like Jules.
    “Um . . . Angelina Jolie on the way back from a smash and grab?”
    “Martin Clunes, that’s who I look like, Martin bloody Clunes.”
    “Oh Jules, you don’t!” I say, snorting with laughter, despite myself.
    “I bloody do! This is what Phil asked for for his birthday: a professional photo of the two of us. I can’t give him this.”
    “Have it done again! I’ll come with you, do your makeup, hold Nathaniel between shots.”
    “Maybe,” she says, ruminative. “I dunno, I just blew it really out of proportion, like it was symbolic of everything.”
    Jules doesn’t normally go in for things like symbolism.
    “Everything?”
    “Like I’ll never be me again.”
    “You are you!”
    “I’m not though, Livvy. You’re not ever quite the same after you’ve had a baby.” She looks at me, searching for the right translation for what it is she wants to tell me—I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t think I’ll understand, or because she doesn’t want to hurt me, but it makes her feel very far away for a second. “I swear to you I’ll never be one of those smug freaks who elevate motherhood to some kind of religious experience, but it does move the pieces around inside.”
    Maybe I’m a bit in denial about this fact, about the part of Jules that’s gone to a country I don’t have a visa for yet, that I might never get a visa for. Don’t get me wrong, I adore being an aunt—the rush of love I felt when I first set eyes on Nathaniel almost frightened me with its ferocity—but it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the way it used to be. The way we could dip casually in and out of each other’s lives withoutneeding to make a plan, every piece of them a titbit in an ongoing conversation.
    “You’ll be back at work in two months, that’ll be a massive dose of normality.”
    “I know, but . . . Livvy, it takes me ninety minutes to get to the shop and buy a packet of butter. I’ve timed it. It doesn’t really seem possible at the moment.”
    “It’s only been four months, of course you’re still adjusting.”
    “It’s not just stuff. I feel like I’m still working out who my people are, you know? They’re not those awful uber-mommies going on about Boden discount codes on Facebook, but I’m not going to be in the office until eight o’clock anymore either.” She waves a dismissive hand, tops up my glass. “I’m being ridiculous, ignore me.”
    But it doesn’t sound ridiculous to me. That was one of the reasons I treasured Sally’s friendship for so long—when I was with her I felt like I’d found my tribe, it was a small tribe admittedly, but it didn’t matter, because it was small and perfectly formed. To me it felt a bit like we were cymbals, like we struck against each other and all of the parts of myself that I’d never let reverberate suddenly became colorful and noisy and worthy of notice. We all need someone who holds up a mirror, we just need to make damn sure it’s not the distorting kind.
    “You’re not being ridiculous.”
    “I am, I’m just tired. The most important headline is that it’s amazing.” Her eyes dart to me quickly, guilt crossing her face. “Not that you couldn’t . . . they’re not compulsory.”
    I don’t want to think about that. I want to hold onto my childish certainty that eventually, if you listen hard enough and long enough, fate whispers in your ear who you should be with.
    “Besides, Phil’s your person.”
    “Hopefully. He might have a rethink when he