If I Could Turn Back Time: the laugh-out-loud love story of the year!

by Nicola Doherty

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'Stop the clock and lose yourself in If I Could Turn Back Time : chick-lit at its best. 5 stars' Kirsty, Love of a Good Book A fabulously funny love story, perfect for fans of Mhairi McFarlane, Joanna Bolouri and Cate Woods. How can you resist? What if you found The One, then lost him again? Or not so much lost him as became the neurotic, needy girlfriend from hell. The girl who tried to make him choose between her and his job, and got seriously paranoid about his relationship with his female best friend... Zoë Kennedy knows she doesn't deserve another chance with David Fitzgerald. But if there's the tiniest possibility of making things right, she'll snatch it. Even if it means breaking the laws of physics to do so... What reviewers are saying about IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME... 'Hugely enjoyable.. story that will leave you longing for your own personal time machine' Daily Mail 'For me, it was one of those rare amazing-all-round books ... I was totally won over by this stunning weekend read' Becca, Pretty Little Memoirs 'I kind of seem like I'm trying to fit the word love into this review as much as possible but I just can't think of another word to express how much I needed to read a brilliant book like this.' Sophie, Reviewed the Book 'It'll definitely melt your heart ... the perfect light hearted read with a little added twist, a happy ending and some great laughs thrown in' Rosie Reads Romance 'I tore through this book in one sitting ... I would highly recommend this' Laura, What's Hot 'Hugely enjoyable' Kiran, Girl Loves Pink Books

Release date: October 24, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 354

Sample

Oops. I did it again.

It was meant to be a quiet Christmas drink – single, not plural – with Rachel. And instead … I cover my eyes and roll over, trying to make sense of what happened. Did that bouncer actually come with us to the other nightclub, or am I imagining that? And did we really get a rickshaw? I have a blurry memory of Kira singing ‘Jingle Bells’ and the driver pretending to be a reindeer. But worst of all, I was going on about David. I promised myself after last time: no more getting drunk and talking about David.

Weirdly, though, I feel sort of OK. I cautiously test for my hangover but I’m whole and hearty. I don’t even have a headache. For once it seems I actually remembered to drink that pint of water before I went to sleep last night.

God, it’s like the Sahara in here, though. I must have left the heating on. I can already picture the texts I’ll get from Deborah today: ‘Zoë, please can you not leave the heating on all night as it’s very expensive.’ ‘PS is that cup on the sideboard yours? If so, I advise you to wash it.’

Yawning, I stumble out of bed to turn off the radiator. That’s strange: it’s not on. I decide to open the window: a blast of cold, icy air will revive me. I draw back the curtains – and instead of a snow-covered front garden, icing-sugar hedge and slushy path, before me is a blinding blue sky, a sunlit street and green trees.

I shake my head and rub my eyes. Is it possible that all the snow could have melted in the night? But what about the trees and the sun? A girl is walking by wearing – I peer closer to the window to look – a short, red summer dress. With bare legs. I gasp aloud and grab the curtain to steady myself.

Then I realise that’s not the only thing that’s wrong.

I’m not in my own bedroom.

Instead, I’m in another one – that I never, ever thought I’d see again. I take in the familiar scene: a large double wardrobe with a built-in bureau, bare except for a comb, a bottle of sunscreen and a pair of sunglasses. A double bed under dark blue sheets with white piping. A Babolat tennis racket and a tall stack of back issues of the British Medical Journal. I’m in David’s bedroom! Heart pounding, I sit down on the bed and clutch the sheets in my hand. They’re real; I’m not dreaming. Was I so drunk last night that I came to David’s apartment? Is it possible that we had some kind of reconciliation, and I’ve blanked it out? Or – sweet baby Jesus – did I just break in?

But what about the weather? It’s meant to be Christmas, and from here it looks an awful lot like midsummer. And where the hell is all my Christmas shopping?

I’ve never been so frightened in all my life. Either I’m having a really bad hangover or else something seriously freaky is going on.

12 hours earlier

23 December, 7.15 p.m.

‘What about this one?’ he asks me, pointing out yet another ring. This one is emerald cut, not big but flawless, with a platinum band. It’s gorgeous. I smile at him and start to put it on, but he stops me.

‘Allow me,’ he says, in a self-conscious gentlemanly tone, clearing his throat. He picks the ring up and slips it carefully on to my finger. ‘I want to make sure I can do this properly when it comes to the big day,’ he adds in his normal voice, loosening his tie. He looks so nervous.

‘It’s lovely,’ I say, turning my hand so that it catches the light. ‘A real classic. I think this is the one, you know.’

‘Really?’ he asks, looking worried. ‘I don’t know. I think I could see her more with the round one. Would you mind trying it again?’

‘Of course.’ I patiently slip the ring off and put the brilliant cut diamond back on, holding out my hand so that he can see. He stares at it in concentration as if there are secret messages emanating from it that will help him make the right decision. I’ve explained to him that I don’t normally work on this counter and he might prefer to wait for one of our jewellery experts, but he says he’s already done all his research; now he just wants to see the rings in action, as it were. I’m glad I did my nails yesterday. Essie Ballet Slippers is the least these rings deserve.

As I look down at his bald head poised over the ring, I allow myself to drift into a fantasy that it’s David who’s just slipped the ring on my finger. I’ve come home from work to find him waiting on my doorstep in the snow. He’s flown over from New York with the ring in his pocket. Or, no – he’s taken me to New York, to spend Christmas with him there. We’ve spent the afternoon in Tiffany’s trying on rings, before finding the perfect one. Now we’re back in his apartment on the Upper East Side near Mount Sinai hospital, opening a bottle of champagne and calling our families and a couple of friends. I start itemising the friends and their reactions, but then decide not to bother: I want to focus on David. Later we’ll curl up and watch the snow falling outside, with Christmas carols playing softly in the background. ‘This is the best Christmas present I could ever have,’ David says, gazing into my eyes.

‘Me too,’ I say, gazing back.

‘This is tricky,’ my customer is saying. ‘I thought it would be easy when I saw them on but I still can’t picture which one she’ll prefer.’

My eyes flick discreetly to the huge Art Deco clock on the wall behind him. Twenty past seven. We close at nine, and I need to make a few more sales; there’s someone waiting already. I can feel Karen, my boss, watching me from the other end of the counter.

‘Do you have a photo of her?’ I ask. I’m probably not supposed to do this, but it will give me an idea of her style.

He takes out his phone and shows me a picture of a dark-haired girl, laughing into the camera. Black biker jacket, red skull-printed Alexander McQueen scarf.

‘The emerald cut,’ I say. ‘Definitely the emerald cut.’

Five minutes later, he’s happily on his way, ring in hand. I watch him go, thinking of his girlfriend opening the hot-pink velvet box on Christmas morning. Now I feel even worse after letting myself have that daydream about David proposing, because it’s not going to happen. Mainly because we broke up three months and nineteen days ago.

‘Zoë, can you tidy up this counter, please? Quickly.’ Karen is right beside me now, practically breathing down my neck. She’s extra picky today because so many people from head office come to the store to help out at Christmas, and naturally she wants to impress them. Across the way Julia, the head of womenswear buying, is on scarves and gloves, and even Mr Marley, our mysterious MD, is rumoured to be working on the chocolate counter.

‘Are you doing anything nice for Christmas, Karen?’ I ask, as I tidy up and get a new supply of boxes and wrapping tissue ready under the till.

‘Just the usual,’ she says shortly. After a minute she adds, ‘How are you getting on, darling? Oh my goodness, it’s manic, isn’t it?’ I’m surprised by this sudden affection, but then I see she’s not talking to me; it’s Louis the head menswear buyer, who’s passing by our counter. They start chatting about something, and then Karen glances at me, and they lower their voices and start whispering. I used to get paranoid when this happened, that they were talking about me – but now I know they’re just gossiping in general.

As they whisper, I take a second’s breathing space and slip my foot out of my shoe, to do a quick calf stretch on one side and then the other. Even though I wear flats every day now (something I never thought I’d do), I’ve developed a tiny blue line on the back of my calf since working here, and I’m terrified it might develop into a varicose vein.

The shop is full of people, all rushing around doing their last-minute bits, with parcels and bags on every arm. There’s an atmosphere of good-humoured panic; people are smiling and chatting, comparing notes on their purchases. It’s as if we’re all backstage getting ready to put on a big play together. ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ is playing and there’s a delicious scent from the miniature tree on the counter, which is decorated with tiny clove oranges.

I love Christmas. Everything about it: seeing my family, curling up and watching old black-and-white films on TV, going to Midnight Mass at the Pro-Cathedral in Dublin, drinking Baileys at four in the afternoon and eating whatever I want. I love the general sense that normal life is suspended and something wonderful could happen at any minute. This Christmas, of course, I won’t be seeing my family. They need me to work on Christmas Eve and St Stephen’s Day – Boxing Day, as it’s called here. My parents are upset (‘What kind of a job doesn’t let you come home for Christmas?’) and I feel guilty. But as I told them, twenty-eight is plenty old enough to have Christmas away from home.

‘Hi, Zoë,’ says a voice beside me. ‘How’s it going?’ It’s Harriet, my fellow womenswear assistant: very young and very sweet and easily the nicest person at work.

‘Hey! Are you on here now? I thought you were on stationery?’

‘No, Karen told me to swap with her. She just left.’

‘One of the buyers is on stationery, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ says Harriet, looking puzzled. ‘But what difference does that make?’

‘Well, Karen likes to network.’

‘Aaah,’ says Harriet, comprehension slowly dawning on her round, pretty face. I know Harriet is a bright girl – she’s studying for an English degree at Leeds university – but she doesn’t always pick up on store politics. She’s as well off.

Suddenly I spot, browsing at the opposite counter, one of my nemeses from secondary school: Kerry-Jane Murphy. Oh, God. She must have come over to do her Christmas shopping. She’s wearing a sleeveless puffa jacket over a cashmere polo neck, and sheepskin earmuffs around her neck. Little bags from Jo Malone, Petit Bateau and Liberty’s dangle from her leather-gloved fingers. Her hair is even blonder than usual, she’s coated in Saint Tropez, and I think she might have had Baby Botox. I turn away, desperate for another customer, but for literally the first time today, there’s a lull. I frown at the cash register, pretending to be doing something that requires great concentration, and pray she’ll go by without spotting me.

‘Zoë Kennedy?’

At the sound of her unmistakable South County Dublin voice, I look up and pretend to be thrilled and amazed. ‘Kerry-Jane! Hi!’

‘Oh my God!’ she says, except in her strangulated accent it comes out as ‘Ew moi Gawd!’. ‘Do you … work here?’

‘I do indeed,’ I say brightly. ‘I normally work in womenswear but I’m helping out down here because it’s so busy.’

‘But … what happened? I thought you were working for Accenture.’ She makes it sound as if I’m begging on the street.

‘PWC. I was, but I left in January—’

‘Ohhh.’ She nods. ‘Were you …’ She mimes slitting her throat, which I presume means ‘made redundant’.

‘No, I resigned. I really wanted to work in fashion, so …’

She recoils. ‘And you ended up here? Like, on the shop floor?’

I have a picture of myself splayed on the polished marble floor like fashion road-kill. ‘Sure. I’m hoping to move on to—’

‘I mean, it’s a beaudiful store, don’t get me wrong. I always come here the week before Christmas. I just never thought I’d see you doing this, you know? You were always so ambitious.’ She cackles. ‘Hey. You know Sinead Devlin has her own accessories label? People are going mad for her stuff. They’re stocking it in Harvey Nicks and she was in Vogue. She was at the ten-year reunion. Why didn’t you come?’

To avoid people like you? If I had a pound for all the people who’ve told me about Sinead Devlin’s success, I’d be – well, I’d have a lot of pounds. In fact I did try to contact Sinead but I never heard back from her.

‘Oh, I was busy. How are you, anyway? Were you looking for anything in particular?’

‘I’m grand! Not a bother. Still working in PR, doing luxury brands mainly. You probably heard; Ronan put a ring on it.’ She pulls off one of the gloves to show me a gaudy pavé-encrusted rock. ‘The wedding’s next July, near Avignon. That’s in the South of France. Here. Why don’t you come, for the afters? The flights are cheap enough. You might meet someone … or are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ Her beady brown eyes light up with eager anticipation; she knows I’m going to say no.

‘Um, no. I was seeing someone but it didn’t work out.’ Why am I telling her this?

‘Aaaaah,’ she says with false sympathy. ‘I’d say it’s hard enough to meet guys while you’re working here, is it? Listen, I’d love to chat more but I’d better head off. I’ve still gotta hit L’Occitane and get something for Ronan’s mom. But mind yourself, will you? Hope it all works out for you.’ With that, she reaches over to pat – actually pat – me on the head, and swishes off in a cloud of Chanel. I’m still reeling from this, when she pops back a second later for a parting shot.

‘Sorry, Zoë, which way is the Hermes concession? Ronan needs another tie.’

Smiling sweetly, I wave a hand and point her in the wrong direction.

What a wagon! The whole point of moving to London was to get away from people like her and have my career change in peace, and then move back home two years later in a blaze of glory, as a head buyer for a top department store or with my own boutique. Now she’s going to be telling the world and his wife about how Zoë Kennedy is working on the till at Marley’s. Well, so what? I was lucky to get this job, and there are loads of prospects for promotion here, even if they haven’t quite worked out yet. How is she able to still hop over on shopping trips, anyway? I thought everyone was broke back home. Hermes ties, how are you. She’s probably just pricing key rings.

I haven’t seen Kerry-Jane for about five years and I’ve just realised she now reminds me of someone. Someone I really, really dislike … who is it? Oh. Of course: Jenny. That’s one of my biggest regrets. I should never have been so jealous of David’s female best friend.

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’

With a guilty start, I see the lady standing in front of me waiting to be served; she’s so tiny I almost overlooked her. She’s maybe in her eighties, with a slightly faded brown raincoat, blue-rinsed hair and huge square glasses, and she’s carrying a cane.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help?’

‘Ooh, thank you. I would like some cufflinks for my godson,’ she says in a quavering voice. It takes her quite a long time to finish her sentence and I wonder if she might have had a stroke at some point.

‘Of course. What sort of thing have you in mind?’

It takes a little while to find out her budget, and choose the right thing, but eventually we settle on a lovely pair of square silver cufflinks, which I gift-wrap for her. She pays in cash, taking the notes carefully out of a worn little purse embroidered with flowers. It’s so teeny-tiny it kind of breaks my heart. Her knotted hands shake a little as she puts the package in her plastic-laminated shopper. My hands twitch to help her, but I manage to stop myself – she might not like it. When she’s finished, she looks up and gives me an unexpectedly sweet smile.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she says. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Happy Christmas to you, too,’ I say, feeling a happy-customer-warm-glow that makes me forget all about Kerry-Jane. I don’t care what people say about shopping not making you happy; I know that the right purchase does make people happy. As I tidy the other cufflinks away, I notice the little embroidered purse, abandoned on the counter.

‘Oh no!’

‘What is it?’ asks Harriet.

‘My customer left her purse. I’m going to run after her, OK?’

‘OK,’ says Harriet, trustingly. She’s obviously forgotten we’re not supposed to leave the counter, let alone the store, unless the building’s on fire or something – and even then we’d probably need Karen’s permission. But I’ll be quick.

‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ I grab the purse and rush out, past make-up and accessories, past bags and scarves, past the lobby with its uniformed doorman and the big flower display, and look left and right.

I can’t see her. It’s dark, of course, and Regent Street is thronged with people pouring in and out of shops, looking in all the lighted windows or just ambling along gawping up at the Christmas lights that are strung all down the street like illuminated necklaces. There’s snow on the ground, and I’m wearing a thin angora sweater with short sleeves (black, as per Marley rules, but with a keyhole detail at the back, from Whistles). It is perishing. But I’m not giving up; she can’t have gone far. I’m guessing she’s headed towards the Piccadilly line rather than Oxford Circus. I push past someone in a Santa suit, to get a better look, and I see her little figure making its way painfully slowly along the pavement. I sprint after her, dodging the crowds.

‘Excuse me,’ I pant to people, finally catching up with her. ‘Excuse me?’ She can’t hear me, so I have to dodge in front of her. ‘Hello! You left your purse …’

‘Oh, my goodness. How silly of me. Thank you very, very much. I would have been lost without this.’ She takes the purse and carefully drops it into her shopper, while I frantically rub my arms to keep them from seizing up. We’re standing in the middle of a crowd of shoppers, right by a roast chestnut stall. The smell makes my mouth water; I barely had time to grab half a sandwich at lunchtime.

‘I’m not surprised to have such good service from Marley’s. It’s a very special place,’ she says. ‘The windows particularly. People used to say …’

No. Really? Is she really going to stand here reminiscing? Does she not feel the cold? After the heat of running, I feel like I’m being attacked with icy knives. A charity mugger looks as if he’s about to approach us but then changes his mind.

‘… and if you stand in front of the windows in the week before Christmas, and make a wish, you’ll get your heart’s desire.’

‘Isn’t that lovely,’ I say, not really taking it in. The crowd surges towards us, and a woman with tons of bags pushes past, almost knocking my new friend off balance. I reach out to steady her.

‘All these crowds are quite frightening,’ she says, looking shaken.

‘Would you like me to get you a taxi?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t put you to the trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble.’ By the time I manage to hail a black cab, my teeth are actually starting to chatter. I help her inside, and repeat her directions to the driver.

‘Happy Christmas!’ I wave at her through the window.

‘Happy Christmas. And don’t forget to make a wish,’ she says, lifting a shaky finger.

I hurry back to Marley’s, hoping I haven’t been gone too long. One of the perfume girls, not seeing my name badge, darts forward and sprays me with something floral before I can stop her.

As I approach my counter, I run straight into Karen.

‘So you decided to get some fresh air, Zoë? Give yourself a little break?’ She’s wearing a fixed smile so that any passing customer will think we’re having a nice chat, but I know better.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You know you’re not supposed to leave the counter ever. Under any circumstances. And did you forget that you’re wearing several thousand pounds’ worth of store property?’ My hand goes to the diamond-and-emerald pendant hanging from my neck. I had forgotten, in fact.

‘I would have thought,’ says Karen, ‘that someone who used to have a very fancy job as a management consultant could be a bit more professional and not decide to wander off …’ I nod, trying to look suitably apologetic, and just stand there and wait for it to be over. I wish she wouldn’t do this in the middle of the shop floor; despite her manic grin I think it must look really odd to customers.

When Karen finally lets me go back to the counter, poor Harriet looks apologetic.

‘I’m so sorry, Zoë,’ she says. ‘I tried to cover for you but it didn’t work. Was she super angry?’

I shrug. ‘Yeah, she gave me the hairdryer. But don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.’

‘What hairdryer?’ Harriet looks puzzled.

‘It’s just an expression; it means she gave out to me.’

‘Gave out what?’

As I try and explain that ‘giving out’ means ‘scolding’, I think: Karen was right. I was really impulsive and stupid. Just like I was with David … but before I can start obsessing again, I throw myself back into work, determined to make my target by the time we close.

As I leave the building, I pause for a minute to look at the windows. Although I pass them every day they still hold a real magic for me. Each one is a fabulous cornucopia, piled high with beautiful, mismatched things: shoes and glasses and plates and watches, gloves and scarves, gold baubles and silver bells. On the Regent Street side of the building are the Fairy Tale windows. My favourite is the Snow White window, with the witch in full-length black Armani and the huntsman in a Prince of Wales check suit. On the shorter side, the one that leads into Soho, we have the Four Seasons.

My favourite window is Summer. It shows a man and a woman: he’s wearing a white polo shirt and faded jeans (both Ralph Lauren) and carrying a picnic basket piled with treats from our food hall, and she’s wearing a long white dress from Theyskens’ Theory and a huge, shady dark blue hat. They’re standing on a green lawn with a gorgeous painted backdrop: green trees, a deep green lake and a perfect blue sky with just a few clouds overhead. They’re both beautiful; it’s the perfect summer’s day; the park looks like heaven.

I’m fully aware that it’s crazy, but the male mannequin reminds me of David. He has the same confident stance, and he’s looking down at the female one the way he used to look at me. I feel my eyes welling up, and blink them quickly to stop myself crying.

I wonder what David’s doing right now. It’s 4 p.m. in New York – he’s probably at the hospital, operating or doing ward rounds or clinics. Manhattan must be so Christmassy. I can picture him walking down Fifth Avenue with his arm full of packages, or outside Macy’s, handing a dollar to the Salvation Army Santa … then turning back to the willowy model/nurse beside him and sharing a Christmas kiss.

To distract myself, I think of my parents taking me to see the windows of Brown Thomas in Grafton Street, when I was six or seven. I was utterly enchanted by it all: the toys and the decorations and especially the moving figures.

‘Does Santa make all that stuff?’ I asked my dad.

He explained to me that while Santa’s elves made some of it, a lot of these presents were made by ordinary Irish people.

‘Like your dad’s dolls’ houses, and the playground stuff his company makes,’ said my mum.

‘But if you ask Santa you can have anything in this window you want,’ said Dad, ignoring Mum who no doubt gave out to him later, for putting such an idea in my head.

This reminds me of what the old lady said, about making a wish and getting your heart’s desire. Obviously it’s nonsense, but on an impulse I close my eyes briefly, and murmur under my breath, ‘I wish I could have David back.’

I open my eyes again and roll them at my reflection in the window. What a nutter. I start walking briskly down Beak Street, feeling very glad that no one saw me.

I’m meeting Rachel just off Old Compton Street, in a strange little bar we stumbled on a few weeks ago. White fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, all the lamps and the fireplaces are decorated with tinsel, and Nat King Cole is singing ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’. Even the waiters wear Santa uniforms and antlers; it’s like a Santa grotto gone mad, or the bedsit of a particularly keen Christmas elf.

The place is packed with Christmas shoppers and office workers, but I eventually find Rachel standing in a corner. A group of guys nearby are checking out her long legs and slim figure in her polo neck and black pencil skirt, but she doesn’t see them; her smooth, dark head is bent over her BlackBerry, thumbs ablur. Seeing two women leaving, I throw myself into their seats, and wave frantically at Rachel until she comes over.

‘Good woman yourself,’ she says, giving me a hug and sitting down. ‘Trust you to find a seat when it’s needed.’

‘It’s great to get the weight off the legs,’ I say with a sigh, stretching out and shrugging myself out of my damp suede coat.

‘You sound like my mammy,’ says Rachel, grinning.

‘I know. Ooh, nice top.’

‘Thanks. I bought it in Gap on my way into work this morning. I haven’t had a chance to do any laundry for about two weeks, thanks to my lovely employers.’

She rolls her eyes to heaven. I smile, thinking that Rachel doesn’t fool me: she might complain about selling her soul to a corporate law firm, but I know she loves her job. I reach over to feel her sleeve. ‘May I? Mm, nice. Merino and cashmere mix?’ I feel a little buzz of satisfaction as Rachel nods, and think: I am learning from my job. I wouldn’t have known that a year ago.

‘So, any news on your case?’ The case doesn’t sound very riveting stuff – it’s a dispute over who owns a lot of oil tankers – but it’s a big deal for Rachel.

‘Well … we just heard today … we won!’

‘Oh my God! Congratulations! Here – let me get you a drink to celebrate!’

‘No need. This is called a White Christmas,’ Rachel says, pouring me a very dangerous but delicious-looking creamy drink from a steel pitcher. ‘God knows what’s in it but it’s good stuff.’

‘Thanks. Cheers! So what does this mean for you?’

‘Well, it mainly means that I have this partner on my side now. I think. Which is good news for making senior associate some day.’ She’s grinning all over, and I’m thrilled for her, and a little envious. Rachel really has made smart decisions with her career – unlike me. She wanted to be a lawyer; she studied law. Whereas I wanted to work in fashion, but studied Business and French because it seemed more secure, and then ended up in a job I hated before finally deciding on a career change at the tender age of twenty-seven. And now I’m twenty-eight, nearly thirty, and I’m still wearing a name badge. Aargh. I sip some more of my cocktail.

‘Are you looking forward to your Christmas with Kira?’

I nod. Rachel knows that I am a spoiled only child so this is new for me, to be away from my parents at Christmas. But I’m lucky I have somewhere to go: I’m spending Christmas with my Australian friend, Kira, and her six flatmates, who share a massive house near Westbourne Grove. Kira’s making a big roast, and we’re going to play Twister and drinking games.

‘Kira’s had flu, so I hope she’s better now.’

‘Flu wouldn’t stop her gallop. She is the most unstoppable person I’ve ever met – bar you,’ says Rachel.

‘I don’t feel all that unstoppable these days.’ I tell Rachel about running into Kerry-Jane at work. ‘She was asking me why I didn’t go to the ten-year reunion.’

‘My ten-year reunion was very weird,’ says Rachel. ‘Everyone was married with three kids. I felt like a freak. One girl has four, can you imagine?’

‘Not even.’ I can barely look after myself, let alone some baby. The song ‘Last Christmas’ comes on. I’ve never really noticed it before, but this year it is on literally all the time, and every time I hear it, I think of David. I try and snap out of it and pay attention to what Rachel’s saying.

‘So did I tell you I’m going to be working on a case in Manchester in the new year? Big insurance fraud case. It’s actually a pretty interesting one because—’ She stops and frowns, looking at me. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

‘Do I? I didn’t realise. It’s just—’

‘What?’

‘David …’

‘Oh, God. What about David? Have you heard from him?’

‘No. It’s just – David trained in Manchester.’ All of a sudden my face is crumpling up and I’m swallowing tears. ‘I’m sorry.’ I feel so pathetic; I promised myself I wouldn’t bring David up tonight, let alone start crying when we’ve barely had two drinks.

‘Zoë, you have to stop torturing yourself over David. It’s done. You have to let it go.’

‘I know. I just can’t help thinking, if I’d only done things differently I could be in New York with David right now.’

‘But … OK. Let’s be a bit practical here for a second. You wouldn’t have been able to work there without a visa. It would have been a big sacrifice for someone you’d known for less than a year. And anyway, didn’t you always say you’re only staying in London for two years, and then you’re moving back to Dublin? Where does New York fit in with all that? What would your parents have said?’

‘I would have worked something out. I would have pounded on the door of every single boutique and store in New York till I got a job, legal or illegal. And David’s fellowship is only for a year, and he’s talked before about moving back to Ireland. It could have been so perfect—’ I choke up again and put my head in my hands.

Rachel pats my shoulder. ‘I know it’s hard. Believe me, I know. But that’s life, you . . .