One Moment E-Book

Becky Hunter

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 436

Beschreibung

SHORLISTED FOR THE RNA DEBUT ROMANTIC NOVEL AWARD 'Prepare to ugly cry and snort laugh with abandon' - Heat 'An emotional read with an OMG ending' - Jill Mansell One moment in time can change everything... The day Scarlett dies should have been one of the most important of her life. It doesn't feel fair that she'll never have the chance to fulfil her dreams - all because she stopped to help a stranger. And now, she's still ... here - wherever here is - watching the ripple effect of her death on those she loved the most. Evie cannot contemplate her life without Scarlett, and she certainly cannot forgive Nate, the man she blames for her best friend's death. But Nate keeps popping up when she least expects him to, catapulting Evie's life in directions she'd never let herself imagine possible. If you could go back, knowing everything that happens after, everything that happens because of one choice you made, would you change the course of history or would you do it all again? 'A gorgeous love story with a twist' Veronica Henry 'Fans of Jojo Moyes will devour Becky Hunter's stunning tale' Sunday Express

Leseprobe

Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2023 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Becky Hunter, 2023

The moral right of Becky Hunter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978 1 83895 866 4

Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 867 1

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 868 8

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

ONE MOMENT

Prologue

Evie sat on her towel, hands pressed into the white sand behind her, long legs stretched out, her skin embarrassingly luminescent under the bright sun. It was still early enough that the beach wasn’t packed with tourists, but already the thrum of life was making itself known. Umbrellas and sunbeds were being set up, kids were splashing in the warm waves, couples were chatting in low tones as they strolled hand-in-hand along the shoreline.

And Scarlett. Over and above it all there was Scarlett, emerging from the water. She was totally pulling off the beachy, surfer-girl look, her blonde hair looking more wavy than scraggly, blue eyes made even bluer by the colour of the ocean. They’d come on holiday with a group of friends from school, but Evie and Scarlett had snuck out first thing, just the two of them, while everyone else was still in bed after a heavy night.

‘What are you doing sitting down?’ Scarlett said as she approached Evie.

Evie tilted her head back, sunglasses protecting her from the glare of the sun, to look at her.

‘We’re supposed to be making the most of every moment,’ Scarlett insisted. ‘We’re only here for a week.’

‘I am making the most of it,’ Evie said, spreading her arms wide. ‘This is what I want to be doing.’ Sitting, enjoying the sun on a beach in Crete, celebrating the end of school – could it get any better than that?

Scarlett put her hands on her hips as she looked around the beach, her gaze almost assessing. Then she gave a decisive nod, like the beach had passed some kind of test. ‘This is the perfect send-off,’ she said, her lips pulling into a satisfied smile.

Send-off. Evie supposed that was right. She remembered what Scarlett had told her last week, when they’d got their A-Level results. It’s only up from here. And it was, wasn’t it? They were going to different universities, but both of them were in Manchester, like they’d planned. Evie was off to study music, Scarlett to study fashion. The start of the rest of their lives, Scarlett had said, eyes holding the kind of fervour that was impossible to argue with. Admittedly there was a part of Evie that couldn’t help feeling anxious. That wondered what would happen if they didn’t make it – if they weren’t as successful as Scarlett insisted they would be – but she was trying her best to squash that feeling down.

‘We’re going to have the best lives, Eves.’ Scarlett laughed and threw her hands in the air. ‘The best lives!’ She started twirling, blonde hair flying, not caring that everyone on the beach was watching her. Evie watched too, a smile pulling at her lips.

Then Scarlett grabbed Evie’s hand, pulled her up from the ground and Evie laughed as she joined in, spinning round and round on the sand. She closed her eyes, pretended there was no one else there, that it was just her and Scarlett. And in that moment she decided it didn’t matter, anyway. It didn’t matter if things didn’t go exactly as planned, if their dreams had to change. Because as long as they had each other, they’d be okay.

Chapter One

The morning that I die I’m in a rush to leave the flat. I couldn’t get to sleep last night, too on edge, replaying what happened earlier in the evening, my stomach curdling with anxiety, so I slept through the alarm. Now I can’t find the bloody key, we’ve run out of instant coffee and I don’t have time to make a proper one. I check the time on my phone as I scurry into our tiny kitchen and swear – silently, so I don’t wake Evie. I have a meeting near Borough Market first thing, and at this rate I’m going to miss it. It’s not like I can ring, push it back. The whole bloody day is backlogged up to the party this evening, which I have to be on form for, because Jason has got these investors interested in my idea for a new label.

My mind immediately turns to Jason then. No. I’m not thinking about him. I’m not. I promised myself I wouldn’t – for this morning at least. Besides, Jason isn’t the point of the party. These people, they are interested in me. My idea. I want to use recyclable materials, which is very on trend at the moment, and they liked my designs too, the ‘boldness’ of them apparently. It would be so cool. To create something all my own. It will make all of the long hours, the shit pay, the endless fawning over people more important than me worth it.

I stop looking through the fruit bowl for my keys – I know it sounds obscure, but Evie once found them there – and take a breath. Evie can let me in later. I spin round on the fake terracotta tiles – really they are just plastic, and the edges are peeling away in the corners and where the cupboards meet the floor – and reach for the whiteboard and pen that Evie keeps stuck to the fridge. It’s one of those magnetic pads; she picked it up for us a few years ago because I kept losing all the Post-it notepads. It’s a tradition for us to write notes to each other. It started when we first moved to London together. I was working as an intern, which basically meant no money and endless hours, and Evie was out temping whilst also auditioning for all those amateur orchestras, so we hadn’t been in the flat together at the same time much and Evie had started the notes. A way to make us both feel less lonely, and to keep each other up to date.

She doesn’t do it much any more. Some days I know she finds writing too difficult, other times I think she simply doesn’t have anything to say – the days when she can’t bring herself to leave the flat. Occasionally, on good days, she’ll write something or do a little drawing, and I know it’s to convince me that she’s okay. But mostly she leaves it to me.

The same photos are still stuck to the fridge from when Evie and I first moved in. Us on the beach in Crete, just after we finished A Levels, grinning like loons with our arms around each other. Me holding a champagne bottle – one that Evie had bought for me after I finished my degree. Us at my twenty-first, surrounded by a group of people we’ve mainly lost touch with today. There used to be a photo of Evie at her graduation too, holding her violin, but she tore it down on a bad day about six months ago. Looking at the photos makes my stomach lurch, thinking of last night. I went too far, I know I did.

Trying to push that aside, I take the whiteboard and rest it on the countertop, in between the fruit bowl – which, incidentally, never has any fruit in it – and the pile of washing up. I should have cleared it up last night really, but after the argument I’d stormed straight into my room. The chopping board covered in crumbs, knife coated in butter and leftover cereal bowls stare at me accusingly and I have to look away.

Don’t worry about the washing up, I scrawl on the whiteboard, I’ll do it later. I stop. Maybe she’ll take that the wrong way, assume it’s because I think she can’t do it or something. Especially after last night. I rub out the words, start again. I’ll be back late this evening, so don’t wait up. Big night!! I’ll message, let you know how it goes. But curry and wine tomorrow, yeah? I leave it at that. No point trying to put everything down on a whiteboard. We’ll talk tomorrow, and it’ll be fine. There is nothing Evie and I can’t fix, surely.

I put the cap back on the pen and head out of the kitchen to the adjoining living room. It’s as I’m crossing the threshold from plastic tiles to old beige carpet that something slices into the sole of my foot and I swear, loudly. I bring my foot up, see blood seeping through my black tights, along with a tiny shard of glass, glinting in the artificial light of the flat. I hobble to the sofa to pick the shard out, placing it on the little coffee table. A memory of last night flashes into my mind – one of our glasses smashing across the floor in the kitchen, water and glass going everywhere. Evie and I staring at it, until Evie made a stiff movement towards the cupboard under the sink, where we keep the dustpan and brush.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said quickly.

‘It’s fine,’ Evie said, through gritted teeth.

‘But I—’

‘I said it’s fine, okay!’

I glance at Evie’s door. I should check on her, I know I should. But I’m already late, and I don’t know how long that conversation will end up taking. I need to get going. I want to get going – there is so much to look forward to today.

I stand up, ignoring the prick in my foot, shove my long black boots on and grab my handbag from where I’ve dumped it by the front door. I love this handbag. I saved up all through my degree to get it. It’s a beautiful crocodile print by a designer who was up-and-coming at the time – a talking point for future interviews.

I’m opening the front door when I hear the click of Evie’s bedroom door. I look over my shoulder at her. She’s always pale, but she looks paler than normal today, with dark shadows under her eyes. She’s wearing flannel pyjama bottoms along with that ugly T-shirt of Will’s that she still wears to bed, even though the bastard left her. She’s looking at me a little warily, and I imagine I look the same to her. The residue of last night’s argument making itself known.

She’s got headphones on and she slips them off her head, flushes slightly. She pretends that she doesn’t listen to music any more – at least the type of music I know she loves. That’s why she’s always listening on headphones, rather than playing it out loud in her room, because she doesn’t want to admit that she’s doing it. I know she does, though, and she knows I know, but neither of us says anything about it. It’s a thing.

‘You’re leaving?’ The slight accusation in her voice sends an unpleasant jolt through me. It is too close to what she said last night.

I clear my throat. ‘Yeah. I left you a note.’ I gesture towards the kitchen, but Evie keeps looking directly at me.

‘I thought you were starting later today, because of the party?’

‘I am.’ Why do I sound so formal? This is Evie, for Christ’s sake. I hate this. Evie and I don’t fight, not really. She is the constant in my life – I need her to be the constant in my life. But I can’t think of what to say to make it better, not in the timeframe I’ve got.

She’s still waiting for an answer, arms crossed over her chest. There’s a moment here when I could tell the truth – what I’m doing this morning, and why. But it’s the wrong time. The argument is still too fresh for both of us, and I don’t have time to explain properly. So I lie. ‘I have to go in early to work, start the prep.’ The words taste bitter on my tongue.

She nods slowly, while I do a quick scan of her, up and down. Assessing, in the way I’ve got used to doing over the past two years or so, trying to check if she’s okay, to figure out what kind of day she might be having. Evie narrows her eyes, and I know she’s clocked what I’m doing.

‘Are you coming to the party later?’ I ask quickly.

‘Maybe,’ Evie says after a beat. ‘I’ll let you know, is that all right?’ She’s too stiff. Is she regretting last night too? Probably – she hates losing her temper.

‘Of course.’ I doubt she’ll come. She rarely comes out these days. Though tonight is important for me, so maybe she’ll surprise me. Or maybe not, after last night. The anxiety curdles again in my stomach.

A message beeps on my phone and I scramble in my handbag for it. My heart spasms in that way that is both pain and pleasure when I see who it is. Jason.

Meet me before you go into work today. I want to see you. Not a question, but then that’s not really Jason’s style. Another message follows: I’ll be at the Soho flat until eleven.

I feel the heat flash through me, the way I’ve never been able to control around him, but I drop the phone back in my handbag. I tell myself I won’t go, that I’ll stick firm to the line I’ve drawn there.

Evie is still looking at me. She doesn’t comment, but I wonder if she suspects who the message is from. Probably. We’ve never been able to hide anything from one another – never usually wanted to. Out of everyone in the world, Evie is the one person I could tell anything to, and I know she feels the same.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, because I really do.

Her eyes flare then. That sparky anger lighting up the green. I’ve always admired her eyes, how expressive they are. It’s the one place she can’t hide her anger, even though I know she tries.

‘I’ll see you later, okay?’ I try to make my voice upbeat, to pretend that nothing is going on here, but I can see the bitterness, from the way she keeps her face so straight, the way her arms tighten around her. She does not want me to leave. Maybe she doesn’t want me to leave her here, alone, or maybe she thinks I should stay until we sort this out, have a proper conversation.

But she nods, and I take that as permission. Because I do have to go – the day is calling to me. And I need time, to figure out what to say, how to make this better. I make the effort to flash her a quick smile before I step out into the musty-smelling corridor of the first floor of our block of flats, where the light seems to be endlessly flickering.

‘Scar?’ She calls my name as I’m shutting the door, and I pull it wider again so that I can look in at her. ‘I…’ She blows out a breath. ‘Nothing.’ The nothing echoes in the space between us. She doesn’t know what to say either, does she? Why should she? She might have ended up saying something she regretted, but I was the one who pushed last night, so I’m the one who needs to make it better. It’s a pattern between us: I make the mistake, I plead for forgiveness and Evie forgives me. I just have to figure out how, exactly, to plead this time. Later, I tell myself. I need to get today out of the way – there’s a lot that can change in one day, after all.

‘Good luck today, yeah?’ Evie continues. ‘I’m sure you’ll be great – it’ll be your Melanie Griffiths in Working Girl moment.’

I smile for real then. Because she’s deliberately breaking the tension between us, offering me an olive branch. ‘Or Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde?’

Evie cocks her head, her long dark hair spilling to one side. ‘No one ever doubted you could do it, though, did they?’

‘I haven’t done it yet,’ I say gruffly.

Evie smiles, a little sadly. I’m not sure how to read it, that sadness. Maybe that, in comparison to her, I’m on the way to achieving my dream, whereas she… ‘You have. Even if this doesn’t come off, which I think it will, you still will have.’

My feet start tapping, impatient for the rest of me to get moving. ‘Eves, I’m so sorry but I really do have to—’

‘Go. I know.’ She waves a hand in the air, gesturing me on my way. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She says it firmly and I feel sure, in that moment, that it’s a promise. That Evie and I are stronger than one argument; that, no matter what, we will stick together, as we always have done.

But I don’t get a chance to test that theory, do I?

Chapter Two

I shove my hands into my coat pockets as I walk along Borough High Street, protecting them from the biting chill that has captured April. Despite the cold, it’s bright, the sun shining out of a clear blue sky, and the day seems almost hopeful. I suppose that’s ironic, really, given what happens next.

I’ve caught up with myself in terms of time, with the first thing on my to-do list already ticked off, but that doesn’t stop me walking quickly, my boots clicking along the pavement, joining in the morning chaos of London. Rush hour is officially over, but everyone in London seems to be perpetually in a hurry. It’s part of why I love this city. I love the unpredictability of it, the constant movement, never knowing who or what might be around the corner.

Because I left the flat without one this morning, I head into the nearest coffee shop and order a black Americano. I taught myself to like black coffee years ago, when I first started my degree. There are no calories in it, and I have to stay slim for work. I’d rather have one of the Easter-themed drinks, full of sugar and cream and yumminess, that are still on sale despite the fact that Easter was last weekend. No point in wasting the calories on it, I tell myself firmly.

I briefly smile at the slightly harried-looking guy – young, early twenties, I’d guess – behind the counter, before getting out my phone, scrolling through WhatsApp automatically. Someone bumps into me and I scowl, but don’t bother looking up to see who it is. I’ve got a little immune to it, I think, from years of taking the Tube – getting bumped into is par for the course here.

My fingers linger over the message from Jason. I know, I know, I promised myself I wouldn’t think of him, but he’s going to be at the party and I can’t just ignore him. Well, theoretically I could. I could also not go to the flat, pretend I never saw the message, and when we see each other this evening he’ll no doubt be the perfect example of professionalism. No one will notice the looks he sends me across the room. No one will notice the way I smile at him, because I’m a shameless flirt and I smile at everyone like that.

Fuck, I want to see him. I want to go to that flat. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t. But I do.

‘Black Americano!’ The way the guy shouts it makes me realize it’s not the first time he’s said it, and I shove my phone back in my bag – without replying to Jason. I take the paper cup, annoyed at myself for forgetting the reusable takeaway cup that Evie got me for Christmas last year. We started doing stockings for each other when we first moved to London and although the presents were pretty crap at first, relying mainly on charity shops, the last couple of years we’ve actually put some decent stuff in there, coffee mug included. It’s unashamedly garish – bright pink and purple with silver writing that says, ‘Bring on the Sparkle’. It’s so ridiculous and every time I hand it over to baristas, they sort of do a double-take. I was slightly appalled when I first unwrapped it, I’ll admit, and Evie burst out laughing at my expression. It was a reminder, according to her, not to take myself too seriously, because generally everything I own is carefully chosen, always on trend. The mug’s not something I’d usually be seen dead with, and initially I used it solely to honour my friendship with Evie, but now, I have to admit, I bloody love it. Every time I get it out, it makes me smile, which I’m sure was Evie’s intention.

Evie. Maybe I should ring her or message her, or something. Though she offered me the olive branch, it still feels odd that we didn’t officially resolve anything. But no. I think – stupidly, it turns out – that I’ll have time for that later. It’s for the same reason that I don’t answer the call from my mum when her name flashes on the screen. I know what it’ll be about: my thirtieth birthday is coming up soon, and she wants to make a splash. I love her for it, I do, but I don’t want to talk about that right now.

There is so much pressure: to have this big party, celebrate the end of your twenties. But I don’t want to be at the end of my twenties, because I’m supposed to have everything sorted by this point, aren’t I? And yes, work is good, and I love London, but there is so much that isn’t sorted. Well, mainly my relationship status. It’s stupid, I know, to get hung up on it. Evie isn’t in a relationship, either, something that keeps me sane, but most of our school friends from back home are married off. My single colleagues and I reassure each other with the fact that London is different, that we don’t have time for the dating apps. And sometimes that makes me feel better. But mostly I wonder what the hell I’m doing and why I haven’t found someone yet. Because, let’s be honest, Jason doesn’t count.

I head back out of the café, take a sip of my coffee and grimace slightly at the bitterness. Ahead of me, the pedestrian crossing is counting down: three seconds left to get across. It’s one of those perpetually busy crossroads where you have to cross one section of the road and then wait in the middle for ages until the lights change on the other side – unless you’re one of those who has nailed the timings and can dash across before the cars start coming.

Usually I’m one of those who rush, so I don’t have to waste precious seconds of my life waiting for the lights to change. So I don’t know what it is today that makes me pause – pause for that second too long, so that I’m stuck on my side of the road, with two sets of lights to get through now.

I shift from foot to foot as the cars come too fast through the crossing. The cyclists come round too, zooming past in their green cycle lane. I watch as some guy on a bright-red bike careers around the corner. It’s impossible not to notice him. Unlike the other kamikaze cyclists, he’s not wearing Lycra. Instead he’s in jeans and a jumper, marking him out as different. He’s wearing no helmet, messy brown hair clearly on show.

He’s also holding the handlebars with only one hand in the middle, the other pressing his phone to his ear. He’s laughing, presumably at something the other person is saying, as he heads towards the lights where I’m standing. Maybe it’s that which draws me to him, keeps my gaze focused on him as he shoots past me, running through the lights literally the second they turn from amber to red, without so much as checking over his shoulder.

The fact that I’m standing, watching as the lights change, means that I see it all. See the man flying through the lights at the wrong time. Watch as one of the oncoming cars from the other direction – potentially running their own red light at the last minute – beeps loudly. As the cyclist visibly jolts, swerves, still one-handed, then has to immediately swerve the other way, out of the cycle lane, as another car comes straight at him.

The green man is flashing, the lights beeping. I should be crossing the road now. But I’m still watching this man, now a few metres beyond me, to my left. Watching as he falls, head-first. And I’m holding my breath, because he doesn’t get up. A couple of cars beep, but no one stops. No one on the pavement is moving, either – the classic bystander effect. Usually I, too, would leave it to someone else to sort out. That’s the thing about London sometimes: there are so many people around to help, it means you don’t have to.

But this time I jerk into action. Coffee spills through the small opening in the lid of my cup, heat searing my hand. I drop it completely, black liquid seeping across the tarmac.

I step off the pavement, into the cycle lane where he has landed. In hindsight, I’ll wonder why I did it. Maybe it was the argument, still turning around my mind – if I was out in the world, living a life that Evie could not, then I could at least do something useful while I was at it. Maybe I was thinking of the message from Jason, about the fact that I needed to face up to what I was doing – and so I felt I should try to reset the balance, good deeds versus bad. But at the time I’m not aware of any of those thoughts. I’m acting without really thinking about it.

When I get to him, his bike is strewn across the road, causing the passing cars to swerve around it, but he is still sprawled in the green cycle lane. I crouch down and the man groans. I feel a rush of relief. If he’s groaning, I’m pretty sure he’s not dead.

He looks up at me. He’s got nice eyes. They’re deep brown, like a dark mocha, and they seem warm. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, as a car rushes past, beeping, like that will make the bike get out of its way. He nods and I hold out my hand, pull him to his feet. He grunts, and I brace against his weight. There is more beeping behind me. Can they not see there’s been an accident?

Cyclists come swooping past now as, presumably, the lights change, and I pull the man to the side, out of harm’s way. He frowns at me, and briefly I wonder if I should check for concussion. What are you supposed to do? Ask what day of the week it is? Who the prime minister is?

He looks around at the tarmac, dumbfounded, as if wondering how he ended up there. I glance down too, see his phone, completely smashed, lying a couple of metres away. After checking quickly for any oncoming cyclists, I dart to it, grab it off the ground. Hand it back to him.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘And thanks for…’ He tails off, gestures at himself, his bike, still lying a short distance away from us.

‘You shouldn’t be on the phone while you’re riding your bike.’ I say it primly, almost condescendingly, and I wrinkle my nose with how it sounds. Another car comes past, and I feel the wind it leaves in its wake whipping across my back.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t look offended. ‘Suppose not.’ Then he grins, a nice, easy expression, one that makes me instantly at ease: infectious is what I think to myself in that moment. He waves a hand to encompass his body – his face is scraped on one side, and his hands look like they are a little skinned too. ‘Clearly not.’

I offer him a little apologetic smile, then, as he seems to be making no move to get it, I hurry into the road to grab his bike, timing it with the lights changing. I bend down to grab the handlebars, then hold it out to him. ‘Sorry, what I meant to say was—’

It happens so quickly after that. Mid-sentence, my words stolen away from me. I barely register the change in his expression, the way he lurches towards me, out of the cycle lane and into the road, as if to grab me. He’s not looking at me. That’s my main thought, in the nanosecond that I have to think. That contorted, panicked expression isn’t being caused by me, but by something behind me, over my shoulder.

I don’t have time to turn, to see. I don’t hear the brakes, the horn, the shouting. Not right away. Not until I’m already falling, already registering the pain. Hot and blind and all-encompassing. Across my torso as I’m sent flying, away from the car that hit me and back onto the tarmac.

Then my head. Something cracking, impossible pain shooting down the back of my skull, to my spine. My whole body reverberating with it.

But it’s brief. Over before I know it.

I don’t even realize what’s happened, because I’m dead the second after I hit the pavement.

Chapter Three

Evie contemplated going back to bed the moment Scarlett left the flat. She hadn’t slept well last night. Their shouting match had taken so much out of her, especially after a rough couple of weeks, but even though her bones ached with tiredness, even though her mind felt foggy, her body stayed resolutely awake, replaying what Scarlett had said to her. She felt the flash of anger, though she shoved it back down where it belonged. It was not fair to blame Scarlett. It was not Scarlett’s fault.

She eyed her bed again. She knew, though, that if she crawled back under the covers, that would be it for the day and she’d never get anything done. Mornings were usually the best time of day for her, and she’d learned to try and make the most of them. So she made her bed instead.

She pulled on some clothes – leggings, a long-sleeved top and the woollen cardigan that Scarlett hated because it was so ugly, especially now, with a hole forming at the cuff of the sleeve. But there was no point in dressing up, was there? She wouldn’t leave the house today, she’d already decided. Not that she felt awful. Not as bad as yesterday, and even that had been better than the day before. She gave an experimental wiggle of her toes, flexed her fingers, rolled her shoulders. She felt relief slide through her at the fact that her body seemed a little more her own today.

She shuffled out of her bedroom. She’d have to start work soon. She’d send a message to her boss, tell him she’d be working from home. Which he’d love, of course. Assistants weren’t meant to work from home, according to him – because how could they do their jobs properly? How would they learn about the nuances of the advertising industry if they were sitting at home all day? He didn’t care about that, though; he had no interest in Evie’s career progression. What he actually meant was: how could she do the personal jobs for him, like buying presents for various family members and booking dinners for him and his wife? He’d been making noises about his and his wife’s anniversary recently, and Evie knew she’d get dragged into that. It had only been pressure from HR that had made him agree to let her work from home at all – and even that, she imagined, wouldn’t last for ever.

She clocked the note from Scarlett on the whiteboard when she got to the kitchen.

Big night!!

Evie stared at it, thinking about Scarlett inviting her to the party. About her answer. Maybe. It had been a lie, they’d both known that. But maybe she should go. Scarlett didn’t always act like it, but Evie knew she was nervous. And after last night, would it mean something if she didn’t show? Because ultimately she was being selfish, wasn’t she? Refusing to go because she didn’t want to, because she’d be uncomfortable, rather than choosing to go because her best friend needed her. Not that Scarlett had actually said she needed Evie there. Maybe she wouldn’t even want her there – a burden on her big night, someone she’d have to look after. That was the problem really, wasn’t it? Evie needed Scarlett more than Scarlett needed her.

It was as she was filling the kettle that she clocked it. Scarlett’s house key, sitting behind one of the taps, the silver glint of it almost matching the grey sink. Honestly, why was her key here? She’d probably intended to start the washing up or something last night and dumped her key here at the same time. Evie should get her a bracelet with a key attachment on, so that she couldn’t keep losing it.

She sighed and slipped her phone out of her leggings pocket, sent a quick text to Scarlett. She’d be assuming Evie would let her in later, of course, but who knew what time Scarlett would be back. If the evening went well, there would no doubt be celebratory drinks after the party, and in all likelihood Evie would be passed out by then.

A few minutes later and Scarlett still hadn’t replied. Maybe she was still mad, after last night. Evie huffed at herself, picked up the phone. Stupid to sit around waiting for her to reply. They were adults, and this was her best friend. So she dialled Scarlett’s number, leaned against the counter as she waited for her to answer.

‘Hello?’

Evie jolted at the sound of a male voice. Low, but jerky somehow. A panicked sound. ‘Hello,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’m looking for Scarlett.’

‘Scarlett?’ It was said with that same jerk, like a sharp intake of breath before the word was spoken out loud. In the background Evie could hear traffic and wind, causing static against the receiver. ‘Right. Right, sorry. Fuck, sorry. Scarlett. She’s… I’m sorry, how do you know her?’

Evie felt her grip tighten on her phone. ‘I’m her friend. Evie. We live together.’ She didn’t quite know what made her add the last bit – a kind of justification, as to how well she knew Scarlett. ‘Who are you? Why do you have Scarlett’s phone?’

‘I’m—’ But someone that end cut him off.

‘Sir? Are you coming with her?’

A hesitation, then, ‘Yes. Yes, I’m—’

‘Hello?’ Evie said again, her voice louder, higher-pitched. ‘Can I please just speak to Scarlett?’

Sirens. She only noticed them now. There were sirens in the background.

‘Look, I’m so sorry, Evie, but Scarlett, she’s…’ The swallow was audible, and it made Evie’s mouth go dry. ‘She’s had an accident.’

Evie stilled. She hadn’t even noticed she’d been moving, shifting from foot to foot, impatiently flexing her fingers, until she stopped. A hot, painful tingle flared down the back of her spine. Her body, warning her.

‘What do you mean, an accident?’ Her voice didn’t sound like hers.

‘She’s… Oh Jesus. Look, they’re putting her in the ambulance now. I’m going to go with her, okay? They’re taking her to Guy’s Hospital. Near London Bridge.’

‘London Bridge?’ Evie repeated numbly. Her brain was working too slowly, refusing to catch up. She held on to the irrelevant information, the thing that she could let herself focus on. ‘But Scarlett works in Soho.’ And she’d said she was going to work, hadn’t she? It made no sense for her to be in London Bridge. Did Jason live there? She didn’t think so.

‘I’m—’

She realized, too late, that this was not the point. That something very wrong was happening here. ‘What accident?’ she asked sharply. ‘What’s wrong with Scarlett? Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s…’ A slightly choked sound then. One that made Evie’s heart spasm, caused her to let out a noise like a whimper. ‘I’ve got to go. I think… I think you’d better get to the hospital, Evie. I’m really sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I… I’ve got to go.’

He hung up. He actually hung up. Evie stood, her phone still pressed to her ear.

Scarlett, in an ambulance.

Scarlett, unable to talk to her.

What kind of accident would leave her unable to speak? No. She couldn’t go down that road. She didn’t know anything for sure. Her heart was speeding up now, fast, frantic beats. She needed to get to the hospital. She mustn’t overreact. Scarlett would need her to be the calm one, the rational one.

She spurred herself into action, lurching towards her bedroom, pulling the first shoes she could find onto her feet, swearing as she got one arm stuck, trying to get her coat on. She dialled Scarlett’s mum as she rushed around, gathering her keys, her purse.

‘Hello, Evie love. I was just talking about you, saying to Graham that we should ring you. You know Scarlett’s party, for her birthday—’

‘Mel.’ She tried for calm, but the word was too high, too scratchy. ‘Scarlett’s had an accident. She’s in an ambulance. They’re taking her to Guy’s Hospital, near London Bridge.’ Too fast. She was speaking too fast.

Calm, she told herself. But her body wouldn’t listen.

‘What?’ Mel snapped. ‘What kind of—’

‘I don’t know.’ She snapped too. The panic coming to the fore. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. I got a call and I…’

‘All right, okay. Graham!’ Evie heard the rebound of Mel’s voice, could imagine her in Scarlett’s cottage, the one her parents never moved out of. ‘We’ll get on a train, meet you there. If you find out anything before we…’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Evie said, hating the way her voice shook. What, exactly, would she have to let them know?

‘She’ll be okay,’ Mel said firmly. ‘This is Scarlett. She’ll be okay.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, she’ll be okay.’ Because that was what you said, wasn’t it? No matter the way the panic was coursing through your body, sending tiny, aggressive bolts of electricity to your nerves, no matter the way your throat was constricting, making it hard to speak at all. When you were trying to reassure each other, that is what you said.

She hung up and fumbled with her phone as she tried to order an Uber. Swore when her fingers were trembling too much to do it, then immediately gave up and tore from the house. It would be quicker to get the Tube. And for the first time in over a year she didn’t think of all the ways it could go wrong, leaving the house. Because only one thing mattered. Scarlett. Her best friend, in hospital. Her best friend, needing her.

Chapter Four

He holds my hand the whole time in the ambulance. This man, this stranger, clings to my fingers as if, by doing so, he is anchoring me to life. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why I’m still here, hovering. I wonder if my hand is still warm. I can see it there, limp in his, but I can’t feel it. I try to reach out somehow, try to move my fingers, squeeze this man’s hand back, but nothing happens. My eyes are closed, even as the paramedics are pumping, trying CPR. My body looks limp, fragile. I suppose it is. Or was. Fragile enough to be switched off, just like that.

The paramedics are still pumping my body, attaching a mask to my face. Do they know that I’m dead yet? Maybe I’m not. Maybe this experience – looking down on myself like this – comes only because I have been knocked out of consciousness. Out-of-body experiences. People have them, right? So maybe that’s what this is. It would explain why there is no bright light to go towards, no tunnel. No sign of my grandmother, dead for years now, or some other guide, coming to take me away. I’ve never given much thought as to what happens after you die, and right now that seems stupid.

I’m oddly calm as I watch, the sirens blaring, the paramedics’ words washing over me, like they are unimportant. ‘What’s her name?’ the smaller of the two asks the man.

‘I don’t…’ He swallows, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. ‘Scarlett. Her name’s Scarlett.’ He knows because he spoke to Evie. I could hear her voice at the other end of my phone when he answered it. Answered it from where it was still in my handbag. Where is my handbag now? I can’t see it anywhere in the ambulance, so it must still be there, lying in the middle of the road. The bag I worked so hard for, gone by now, no doubt. Taken by some random passer-by, their lucky day.

Something surges up inside me. It takes me a moment to recognize it as nausea. Which is odd. How can I be nauseous without a body? But I am. And I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be looking at myself, don’t want to see them fighting to bring me back. Don’t want to look at the blood, still trickling from my head, matting in my hair. I don’t want to think about Evie, rushing to get to me, when there isn’t a me to get to. But I’m pulled along with my body, no choice in the matter.

‘I’m sorry,’ the man is saying now, talking over the paramedics, who are saying my name over and over, telling me to stay with them. The man’s face is pale, almost as pale as mine, and his hair is flopping into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ Again and again. He’s gripping my hand so tightly now that it looks like it would be painful. Something twists in me, watching, but it’s like a distant echo. My emotions are there, but dim. Like I’m somehow protected from them.

The ambulance pulls up outside the hospital and then it’s all action. The paramedics wheeling me out. Doctors, running to meet us. My hand pulled from the man’s grip, him following behind, stumbling over his own feet. The doctors asking crisp, efficient questions as they wheel me towards the hospital entrance. Why? Do they think they’ll be able to fix me? Will they be able to fix me? Fix my body so I can go back to it? Maybe that’s why I’m still here, the essence of me – because I’ve still got a chance. I should feel hopeful at that. Or anxious, maybe. I know I should, but none of the emotions come, everything still on mute. I, who usually feel everything so strongly, so immediately. I’ve never been the calm, measured one – that’s Evie.

The man is told to wait as I’m rushed through double doors, one of my arms falling limply off the trolley. He looks around him, blinking in the harsh hospital lighting. The scrape on his face looks worse under this artificial light. There are people all around, sitting in the waiting area, some of them eyeing the man up, like they are wondering what he’s doing here. He just hovers, like he’s waiting for some explicit instruction. I hover too, staying this side of the double doors. No one seems to be allowed through there, except for the doctors, and for some reason that seems to include me. Me as in the real me, not my body. And actually I don’t want to see them keep pumping at my heart, trying to drag me back from wherever I am now.

A second before the revolving hospital doors start moving, I know. It’s like I can feel her energy. Then she comes running through, her dark hair flying, her coat buttoned up all wrong. I can see that ugly cardigan underneath, the one with all the holes. Why does she insist on wearing that? It makes her look frumpy, and she’s not. Her green eyes are wide, and she’s breathing heavily. Too heavily, really. She stumbles to a stop in the waiting room, eyes darting around frantically, like she’s looking for someone. Looking for me. Again I feel that echo of a twist, like a phantom pain.

When she starts moving again, her gait is stiff, awkward. I’ve got so used to it, it’s odd to notice it now. Maybe it’s something that’s more evident in a hospital, where people are expecting you to be ill or injured.

She crosses to the reception desk. ‘I’m looking for my friend.’ I can see she’s trying to be firm, but the words come out all shaky.

The receptionist looks up, blinks a few times as if trying to draw Evie into focus.

‘My friend,’ Evie repeats. ‘Scarlett Henderson. I’m sure she must be here by now. There was an accident and she…’ Her voice seems to be choked away and she takes a steadying breath. ‘Where is she now? Please.’ The last word comes out as a whimper, and I feel my lack of a body most acutely in that moment. When I can’t lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

‘I’ll try to find out from the doctors,’ the woman says, her voice soft, level. Used to dealing with other people’s panic, I’m sure. ‘Please take a seat in the meantime.’

I can see the words Evie wants to snap back. Can see the colour rise up her neck as she clamps her lips together. Of course she can’t just take a seat. Who does this woman think she is? I would have snapped it out, but Evie only gives her a look, holding it in. The man, who I’d forgotten about, my attention wholly on Evie, comes up behind her.

‘Are you Evie?’ His voice is hoarse, like he’s been shouting.

Evie spins to him. ‘Yes. Why? Who are you?’

‘I’m Nate.’ He winces, like he realizes how insignificant that is. ‘I’m the one who… Who was with her.’ Was with me. It’s all wrong, the way he phrases it.

‘What happened?’ Evie asks quickly. ‘Is she okay? Where is she? What happened?’ She lurches towards him, takes his hands in hers, the action heartbreakingly vulnerable.

‘I… Maybe we should sit down.’

‘Will everyone stop telling me to sit down!’ She drops his hands, pulls both of hers through her hair. It’s still matted from this morning – I bet she hasn’t even brushed it. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it? That’s why you’re saying it. People only say to sit down when it’s bad.’

It’s true, isn’t it? No one ever says, ‘Maybe you ought to stand up for this.’

Evie scrunches her eyes closed, then turns, shoulders hunching. She all but collapses onto the nearest chair, one that looks hard and uncompromising.

And in that moment I find myself pulled away. I don’t know how or why, but I’m no longer in the hospital, with Evie and Nate. I’m on a beach. I’m laughing, falling down on the sand, with Evie collapsing down next to me, but in joy rather than in defeat. A younger, more carefree Evie.

Crete. This is Crete. It’s where Evie and I went with a bunch of school friends, after we finished A Levels. We cannot stop laughing, I don’t remember why. And this is different from the present. I’m not looking down at the scene, I am a part of it. I am in my body – the body I had then. I can feel everything, exactly the way I felt it back then. The sand, sticking to my skin where I’ve been swimming, the heat of the sun on my face. That feeling of lightness, of the world being ours: mine and Evie’s. I try to stop laughing, but I can’t. I am here, but I am trapped.

‘There you guys are.’ Now I stop laughing and look up to see Connor, my first boyfriend. His hands are on his hips as he looks down at Evie and me. God, Connor! I haven’t thought about him in years. I think he got married, stayed in our home town, near Cambridge. Maybe he’s even got kids by now. I never thought it would last between Connor and me – I was only eighteen, after all, and I was fully aware that he liked me more than I liked him. He was practice, in my head, for when I met the ‘real thing’. It seems horribly crass, thinking about it like that now.

‘I’ve been looking for you.’ There is a slight accusation in Connor’s voice that makes me want to grimace, though the me I’m inhabiting doesn’t do that. Instead my body is getting up, moving towards him. Slinking. God, did I really used to slink like that?

‘Sorry,’ I say, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. Shameless flirt. I suppose that hasn’t changed. ‘We wanted to enjoy a bit of sun, and you guys were all being lazy.’ I smile and I remember that – the way I used to pander to Connor’s insecurities, already aware of how to play the game.

Evie gets to her feet and I can see the self-consciousness returning in the way she crosses her arms across her stomach, over that black swimming costume she’s wearing.

‘Well, I’m here now,’ Connor says. He puts his arms around me, his skin hot against my bare stomach. The smell of his aftershave is too much, like he hasn’t yet figured out how much to apply. Did I notice that then? I can’t remember. ‘Let’s go for a swim.’ He says the words quietly, and I can tell he’s trying to be seductive. Now, in my current consciousness, I want to pull away. I actually strain, trying to reach the edges of my body, trying to make my hands, my feet, listen to me. But I don’t step away.

‘Go,’ Evie says with a smile, a casual shake of her hand. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll head back to the house, I know where it is.’ Was I thinking of her then? Or was I only focused on Connor, on making sure that I was playing it exactly right with him? It seems stupid, now, that I was ever worried about that.

‘Thanks, Evie.’ There’s no malice in Connor’s voice. He liked Evie. She always knew the right way to play it, to make people like her; when to ask questions, when to laugh. I don’t think she knew it – it was something she did subconsciously.

‘Have fun!’ she says, an edge of a smirk to her smile.

Connor takes my hand, pulls me away from Evie and towards the ocean. I start laughing, squealing as he splashes water up at me. I can feel Evie behind me, but I can’t see what she’s doing, because the memory-me won’t turn to look, turn to see what she’s—