Nine Perfect Strangers

She was a savage little spitball of rage. It was cute. What did Zach used to say when Mum got mad? ‘Mum’s being a savage cabbage.’

She closed her eyes. Mum is being such a savage cabbage right now.

Thought you weren’t talking to me. His voice was clear as a bell in her ear.

I’m not. I hate you. I can’t stand you.

Yeah. I can’t stand you either. Why do you keep telling people we weren’t close?

Because we weren’t. Before you died, we hadn’t talked in, like, a month.

Because you were being a bitch.

No, because you were being a total loser.

Fuck off.

You fuck off. I downloaded your Shakespearean Insult Generator.

I know you did. It’s funny, right? Do you like it? You pribbling half-faced harpy.

And I broke your electric guitar.

I saw that. You threw it across the room. You spleeny milk-livered lewdster.

I’m so angry with you.

I know.

You did it on purpose. To get back at me. To win.

Yeah, no. I can’t even remember what we were arguing about.

I miss you every single day, Zach. Every single day.

I know.

I’ll never be a normal person ever again. You took that away from me. You made me ABNORMAL and it’s lonely being abnormal.

You were already kind of abnormal.

Very funny.

I think the parents want us over there.

What?

Zoe opened her eyes and the yoga studio was a million miles wide and her mum and dad were tiny specks in the distance, beckoning to her. ‘Come sit with us.’

chapter thirty-three

Frances

Frances felt the soft, frosty tickle of snowflakes on her face as she and her friend Gillian flew across a star-studded sky in a sleigh drawn by white horses.

A pile of books filled her lap. They were all the books she’d ever written, including foreign language editions. The books were open at the top like cereal boxes. Frances dipped her hand into each book and pulled out great handfuls of words to scatter across the sky.

‘Got one!’ said Sol, from the back of the sleigh, where he and Henry sat smoking cigarettes and killing off unnecessary adjectives with catapults.