Marcie’s wonderful friend had supported her through her break-up . . . and into a whole new way of life
BY LAUREN REBBECK
OK . . . last box. The last box containing the shards of a once picture-perfect life in the countryside. The last box to be hauled from her best friend’s ancient turquoise Micra, squeezed into a very questionable spot on a side street half a mile away.
The last box to be lugged up the two flights of stairs to her new temporary home, with all its raspberry pink walls. Marcie’s arms ached. So did her heart.
Marcie was incredibly grateful to her best friend Zo. She just wished she had slightly less offensive taste when it came to decorating. But while Zo’s taste in home décor might be questionable, her loyalty certainly was not.
Zo had listened on the phone day after day to Marcie’s neurotic suspicions (“not neurotic – accurate,” Marcie corrected herself). It didn’t matter how stressed Zo was after a day of brokering financial negotiations, or how frazzled she was from the underground commute back to her little pink flat, or how exhausted she was after a sweaty workout. If Zo received a less than smiley emoji from Marcie, there would be an incoming video call.
So, when the day finally came that Brandon confirmed all Marcie’s wild suspicions and announced he was breaking up with her but that he’d had the “decency” to pack up her belongings, Zo was on her way in fifteen minutes.
Her creaky turquoise car spluttering fumes as she raced to Marcie’s rescue was powered by sheer will, a little bit of petrol and pure rage. Zo threw expletives at a sheepish Brandon, grabbed the “thoughtfully” prepared boxes of Marcie’s belongings and bundled her best friend into the passenger seat. Then it was back up the M3 to London.
They’d left the boxes in the car (which was steaming and puffing violently) and headed back to the flat for a good cry, a bad film and a few bottles of wine. Today was a fresh start.
So, Marcie bent to lift the last box out of the boot. It wouldn’t budge.
Marcie had always been petite. Pale, quiet and tiny, “a delicate dormouse,” as her mum would annoyingly refer to her.
She tried again, every muscle in her skinny forearms burning. It slipped from her grasp: fossils and geodes crashed to floor. Marcie’s fortitude shattered like the crystals on the pavement. She fell to her knees and scrambled to gather them, struggling to see through her tears.
