Just Last Night - Mhairi McFarlane Page 0,125

show her the tourist stuff this time, which I’ve never had a cause to bother with until now.’

‘Can’t wait. That’s when me and Rog gonna PARTAY,’ Ed says, doing heavy metal horn hands. ‘Slash, watch a lot of Queer Eye and eat Dixy fried chicken.’

‘Really grateful to you for the house and Rog sit,’ I say.

‘Pleasure is mine. Your house beats my flat any day.’

Ed got a tough time from Hester over the sale of their home and ended up announcing his lack of interest in re-entering the property market, for the time being. He’s renting a flat at the moment but it’s a real man hole – dirty bike propped against radiator, no pictures up. He’s on Tinder, and has some tragicomic tales already. It feels quite the switcheroo, Justin and I being in serious relationships, Ed single.

‘Your boss is definitely OK with your sabbatical?’ Ed says.

‘OK-ish,’ I say. ‘She’s signed it off.’

‘Shhh,’ Francis says. ‘Results!’

‘I smell victory,’ Ed says. ‘Breathe it in, my bitches.’

‘If we had victories as often as you smell them, Ed, we’d be banned from this quiz the same way Ben Affleck isn’t allowed in Vegas casinos.’

‘Really, what for? Being rich?’ Ed says.

‘They certainly don’t chuck you out for being rich, they do ban you for being too good at blackjack,’ Fin says. ‘That’s why the house always wins.’

‘Counting cards,’ I nod.

‘He wasn’t counting them, he told me that …’ Fin stops, eyes wide at all our shocked faces. ‘I mean, I read that he said …’

We all screech in delight.

‘OK. Here are the answers …’ the quizmaster says, and we swap sheets with the next table for marking. We do improbably well, compared to usual.

‘And last … I asked, which branch did the Slough branch merge with in The Office?’

‘If it’s Reading, I hate you all,’ Justin says.

‘It was of course, Swindon. Sunny Swindon.’

‘Yes!’ Ed says. ‘Nice one, Finlay.’

We exchange papers back again.

‘Forty-six!’ I say.

‘Alrighty then! Who got … fifty out of fifty …’ bellows the compere.

We’re tense, Francis and I holding hands, eyes squeezed shut.

‘Forty-nine!’ Silence.

‘Forty-eight!’ Silence.

‘Forty-seven!’ The Packable Anoraks got forty-seven, surely. Silence.

I open my eyes.

‘Who got … forty-six?’ the quizmaster says.

We look at each other. ‘Us! We did!’ the five of us shout in unison, waking Leonard. Unfortunately the Packable Anoraks have bellowed too.

‘Bring your papers up here, please,’ and Francis scrambles up to hand it over for verification.

Within minutes, the compere says: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, seems we have a dead heat here. So you know what that means: a tie-break question. Can each team nominate a member to come up here. I will ask a question, only the two nominees get to answer. The first to give me the right answer, wins.’

The Packables send their best man, who looks like a furious wizard, patting him on the back as he steps up. ‘Go on, Tony!’

We look at each other.

‘Eve,’ Fin says. ‘You’re equal to this challenge. Go get us that trophy.’

‘Oh no, I’m shite.’

‘Not shite. Up,’ Fin says, and Ed, Justin and Francis make noises of agreement.

‘Here it is, the tie-break. Remember, shout it out because it’s fastest answer as well as correct answer, now. The ballad “I Will Always Love You” was a smash hit for the late Whitney Houston in 1992, spending fourteen weeks at the top of the Billboard charts. However, Whitney didn’t write it. Who did write it?’

‘BARRY GIBB!’ Tony from the Packable Anoraks shouts, like he’s been Tasered, to football-stand cheers from his team.

‘That is incorrect, I’m afraid,’ the compere says, as the din subsides. ‘Would this lovely lady like to give her answer?’

I look at the hopeful faces of my team, their fists clenched in anticipation. Finlay winks at me.

‘Is it … Dolly Parton?’ I say.

‘We have a winner!’ the quizmaster says, and my corner of The Gladstone erupts in hysteria.

‘Congratulations, to …’ he picks up our quiz sheet and squints through his readers at the name. ‘Susie’s Losers.’

After

You were alive again last night.

It wasn’t a nightmare, Suze – and I’ve had plenty of those – it was just another world, exactly like this one, but with a dramatic difference. Your presence. Your presence, which I took for granted.

In this place, we were cheerfully organising a skiing trip, sitting at a school desk, while next to a busy motorway. The cars thundering past made the table shake but neither of us were bothered. How about Switzerland? you said. We had plans.

(I wonder if Switzerland was some subconscious thing because that’s where Hester was, when you and Ed …? Haha, by the way, in return? You never get to complain about Finlay. PSYCH. Yeah don’t argue. You know I have you.)

It will always be this way, I’ve come to realise. You are never behind me, Susie. You are never something that happened. You are always alongside me.

I clumsily scrabble for my phone in the blackness, scroll down and find the last text from Susie. Those words in a speech bubble on my handset. It still feels impossible there is no chance of any more, that it was a final word. That she’s not there, behind that screen, hovering out of sight. Waiting for a cue.

I type a reply:

SO much to discuss. Speak soon. I love you. xxx

Across the room, where I’d plugged her phone in to charge, there’s a firefly glow as it lights up, as if in response.

I hear her, clear as a bell, in my head.

Love you too, you iridescent beast. xxx

PS still have to say, my brother, GROSS

We make each other so happy, though!

I am not sure that doesn’t make it MORE gross. That’s what Mr Pulteney the geography teacher said when we found out he and his wife were nudists, remember?

I laugh to myself. I will always hear Susie in my head. It’s an ongoing conversation. Lifelong.

Fin stirs awake. ‘You OK? Did I see a light on?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘That cat is not only heavy, he’s soaking!’ Finlay says, registering Roger’s presence, and Roger yowls territorially, in reply.

‘Rog is as Rog does.’

Finlay pushes his arms around me and we lie in silence, side by side, for a while, listening to the swish of greenery in the wind beyond the window.

‘I think the rain’s stopped,’ he says.

I twist round to face him.

‘So do I.’

THE END

Acknowledgements

Much editorial gratitude with this one: firstly, to my editor Martha Ashby, who was not only hugely enthusiastic at outline stage, but before departing for maternity leave, fielded a lengthy phone call from me where I wailed I’d bitten off more than I could chew. She calmly informed me I had not, I would be carrying on, and it would be great. Without those words this book wouldn’t be here, so thank you for your faith. Further gratitude to my skilled caretaker editors throughout rocky old 2020, Lynne Drew and Sophie Burks, whose good humour and unflappable approach have made them a joy to work with. I especially appreciated being pushed to get each draft to where it needed to be, without ever feeling like I was being pushed. Cheers to you all, ladies, I look forward to raising a glass when it’s legal again. And thank you to the whole HarperCollins team, both UK & USA, for their support and energies, I’ve missed seeing you all!

Thank you to my agent Doug Kean, always a cheerful pleasure to work with. It’s like a marriage now, except we don’t argue over choices of coffee table.

My first draft reading crew: Tara, Sean, Katie, Laura, I couldn’t do this without you. Special shout to Kristy Berry on this one for saving my sanity. Thank you to Carol Clements for her patient, legal expert advice on wills and probate. If I’ve mangled it, that’s on me.

And thanks always to Alex, who has the not-always joyous but completely essential task of telling me to stop catastrophising, carry on, and that maybe it’s quite late to still be in my pyjamas.

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About the Author

Sunday Times bestselling author Mhairi McFarlane was born in Scotland in 1976 and her unnecessarily confusing name is pronounced Vah-Ree.

After some efforts at journalism, she started writing novels and her first book, You Had Me At Hello, was an instant success. She’s now written six books and she lives in Nottingham with a man and a cat.

Also by Mhairi McFarlane

You Had Me at Hello

Here’s Looking at You

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Who’s That Girl?

Don’t You Forget About Me

If I Never Met You

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia