Break-Up Club: A smart, funny novel about love and friendship. Lorelei Mathias
indulge it at first,’ Bella said.
‘Yeah. That’s the point,’ Olivia said, holding out the tray of baklava. ‘Here, get your strength up.’
Holly tried a tiny morsel.
‘It’s really just a formality at this stage,’ Olivia said, sounding a little too much like she did in her day job. ‘In the eyes of BUC law, you and Harry are already members. You both joined by default when you did a Synchronized Dump.’
Holly winced at the ridiculous slogan and scanned the room for any trace of irony. She looked across at her best friend from childhood, Harry, who had signed only moments before. The wry smile on his freckly face said that yes, he appreciated how ludicrous this all was, but the alternative was too bleak to comprehend. Going it alone. Venturing into the Valley of Unrelenting Doom in a seat for one. No, that was too horrendous a thing to imagine. Much better to travel on a bicycle built for two; or in this case, four.
Holly wiped her nose and took a deep breath. ‘All right. Gimme.’
Bella did a small handclap, then passed her the pen.
Even though this was all madness, there was still a part of her that felt like she was betraying Lawrence. Somehow signing on a dotted line made it all seem more final. Counting to three in her head, Holly signed her name in funeral black, next to the other squiggles.
‘And then there were four,’ Bella said.
Everyone cheered and clinked glasses. Holly pretended to look pleased and dedicated to the cause. Pretended she wasn’t thinking about Lawrence for the fourteenth time that minute.
She handed the document to Olivia, who returned it to its A4 plastic sleeve, the matter of New Joiners now dealt with. ‘We can always add to The Rules, as we see fit,’ she said, stretching up to place them high on a shelf as though they were the Dead Sea scrolls. ‘I think we’re done here, don’t you? Unless anyone’s got any AOB?’
Bella, Harry, and then Holly shook their heads.
‘So then, let’s go out and celebrate your inauguration!’ Olivia smiled.
As they descended the stairs in the flat, Holly felt her eyes well up again and finally she gave into the tears. She let them fall in time with her walk, leaving little droplets on every second stair. Before long, there were so many lines of black eye make-up down her cheeks that, as she shut the front door behind her and stepped out onto the street, she had the distinct look of a Jackson Pollock No.7.
Of course, none of them had imagined they’d ever need a thing so absurd as a Break-up Club. None of them had imagined they’d be spending the fag-end of their twenties slumped together in a living room in Harringay, knocking back cheap wine and baklava to a soundtrack of The Cure. Least of all Holly, who had always been such a committed Marxist. Not of the hammer and sickle variety, but the one Groucho
Marx gave to the world when he vowed never to belong to any club that would have him as a member. The kind that has since led to neurotic girls everywhere (Holly among them) running for the hills whenever anyone shows too much interest. Which was why out of all four of them, she was the last to see this coming. But then, there are some things in this world – your first grey hair, an on-time Northern line train, a pig flu epidemic – that you just never see coming.
(Two months earlier)
‘Your heart is a weapon the size of your fist.
Keep fighting. Keep loving.’
(‘Pure Evil’ Street Art, East London)
I love him; I love him not.
I love him… Holly decided, tearing off the virtual petals and staring across at the handsome man with the brown curls and big blue eyes… the one who’d first rocked her tiny world five years ago.
Yes, I one hundred per cent definitely love you, Lawrence Hill. Holly put the imaginary pile of ‘love him not’ petals to one side and stared at his silly face with fondness.
‘Stand clear of the doors. Mind the gap,’ came a brusque female voice, puncturing the moment.
‘Wow. She’s in a grump today.’
Lawrence smiled from across the carriage. ‘You realise it’s just a recording? She’s not real?’
‘She probably was, once…’ Holly mused, a scene unfurling in her mind of a glamorous actress in a Soho sound booth, trying out different tones – from jovial to breezy, to downright matronly.
‘Fair,’ Lawrence said, staring at the Tube map like it was some kind of exciting code to be cracked. ‘But in other news, we need to get off in a minute.’ He grabbed his denim jacket off the floor.
Holly pressed pause on the sound session and looked up at the map. ‘No we don’t.’
‘Yes. Ours is the next stop,’ he said with the over-focused determination of Rain Man.
‘But we’re nowhere near Tufnell Park.’ She gave Lawrence a knowing smile, her left dimple popping out as she did.
‘Ah, but my dear Folly, that is a simplistic way of looking at things.’
‘Why’s that then?’ She moved into the proverbial brace position.
Adopting an old-fashioned BBC accent, Lawrence went on, ‘We should alight at Stockwell and change to the Victoria line.’
Holly’s brow furrowed. ‘Or, surely we just get the Northern line all the way to Tufnell Park?’
Lawrence smiled knowingly and shook his head. He began picking at the dilapidated shell-top of his left trainer. He pulled at the rubber flaps until they were dislodged, at which point he looked up.
‘Of course,’ his eyes widening with his trademark blend of smugness and childish excitement, ‘that is what London Transport’s Flawed Journey Planner would have you believe. However, I might remind you that there are a limited number of secret shortcuts and portals on the underground network, which only the truly seasoned Londoner is privy to.’
‘Wow. You have literally never been sexier.’
He grinned with pride. Lawrence, for all his charms, suffered from a rare yet socially debilitating condition known as Tube Tourette’s. Having grown up in the Midlands, Holly was distinctly less interested in Tube trivia than Lawrence. His fascination for it was so all-consuming, she firmly believed that under his skin were not veins or arteries, but a full replica of the London Underground map (first designed by underground electrical draughtsman Harry Beck in 1933, he’d hurry to tell you, too).
‘The Northern line boasts two such changes,’ he went on. ‘One at Stockwell, and another at Euston. While they might appear pointless at first, these two changes will actually shave off a substantial section of your journey time. Not to mention the fact that the Northern line is heinously unreliable, frequently beset by the twin evils of signal failure and engineering works.’ Holly let out a small sigh. Being an avid book-reader (a fact she loved about Lawrence), he had a habit of talking as if he was choking on a thesaurus (a fact she loved less so). There was a time when this had charmed her. Now it just niggled at her sanity.
‘Lawrence you douche, just give it to me in English.’
‘We’ll cut out loads of time if we change lines here. FACT.’
‘I have seventeen bags with me after staying at yours. I don’t fancy changing trains and schlepping all this about.’
There