‘What can I say? I’ve been living off courgetti lately,’ Connie says with a shrug. ‘But the hand cream is a good shout. I’ve a feeling I’m going to be really grateful for it come November.’
At the mention of hands, I notice Hope look down and study hers, her knuckles bumpy and red where she’s scratched the eczema-inflamed skin. She’s not been able to leave it alone lately and when I’d questioned her about it she admitted to liking the uncomfortable sensation of her nails peeling the fine, flaky top layer of skin away. She claimed it felt cathartic, but the red, raw marks looked painful, with even the children in her class noticing the angry scarlet patches in contrast to her creamy skin tone. Hope had always suffered with eczema. It had a nasty habit of flaring up when she was stressed, and since she and Amara had finished, she was incredibly stressed. More than stressed, she was bereft. She wasn’t sleeping, was barely eating… she was a mess.
I snap myself out of my distracted thoughts, only just registering the glint of suggestion in Connie’s voice. ‘Why November?’
There’s a theatrical pause where Connie looks like she might physically burst. Her face is shining with unadulterated joy. ‘I’m in!’ she finally exclaims, clapping her hands together in miniature, yet excited, applause. ‘I wanted to tell you straight away, but by the time we’d set up the DVD and got ourselves ready to watch it…’ her voice trails off, but the animated glow remains.
‘Wait, what?’ I do a double-take. I’m at an actual loss for words. ‘You mean Africa? The volunteering?’
Connie nods. ‘Yes! I spent all of Saturday searching the websites of different charities, and one – well, as soon as I saw the page I knew I was meant to contact them. It was everything I hoped for. They’re renovating a school for a community in rural Uganda. I’m renovating a school in rural Uganda. Can you believe it?’
She’s full of glee, her eyes flaring with passion. She looks so utterly, completely alive, lost in a world of possibility. Not unlike Maria, actually, who’s gallivanting with the children on the screen, wielding the ugliest puppets in the history of cinema; although I make a mental note to rewind to this song at the end so we can all yodel along like the Lonely Goatherd. But this is Connie’s big moment and although I can’t stop my twitching foot from tapping against the lounge floor, I’m desperate to know more.
Hope obviously is too.
‘Can anyone offer to go? Or did you have to have an interview? And how much is this costing?’ she asks, firing questions at a rate of knots. I silently will my sister not to rain on Connie’s parade by making her overthink this decision. I can’t remember the last time I saw Connie looking as vibrant, as full of life, as she does right now. I love Hope dearly, I absolutely do, but I can’t help but wonder if Hopeless would have been a more appropriate name for her, given her constant state of negativity.
‘Anyone can apply, as long as they’re in good health and meet the criteria. And yes, I had an interview over the phone on Wednesday evening. The project leader rang and asked all sorts of questions about why I wanted to do it, if I felt I’d be able to cope with seeing the extreme poverty, any relevant experience I had…’ She looks shamefaced. ‘I must admit, I didn’t have much I could say to that one. Data input hasn’t really prepared me for manual labour in temperatures similar to a Yorkshire heatwave. And yes, I have to raise some of the money myself, because they’re a charity. The cost of flights and accommodation for a team of volunteers would obviously eat into their funds, when this way it can be put to much better use helping people in need. But that’s where the next surprise comes in, and this is even more incredible than me going to Africa in the first place. In fact, you’ll never believe me when I tell you.’
A small indent appears in her cheek, a cheeky dimple coming out to play.
‘Stop teasing!’ I squeal, unable to bear the tension a moment longer. ‘Get on with it!’
‘Well, I was dreading having to tell Dad. I didn’t want him to get upset at the thought of me going away. But I steeled myself up and broached it with him over tea last night, and he said I couldn’t have timed it better. Apparently my mum had a life-assurance policy that she’d taken out ‘just in case’. And in her will she left it all to me, with strict instructions not to touch it until my twenty-fifth birthday…’
‘And that’s next week!’ I’m aware of my voice squeaking, but my head’s whirring at how fast this is moving. Issy’s laughing at me, probably because my jaw is literally gaping open in wonderment. I must look so gormless right now. ‘I was always jealous of you being the oldest in your class. You’d get the best choice of sweets from the birthday tin in assembly at primary school. By the time it got to my birthday in July there were only ever those fruit lollies left, and they’d always be a bit sticky as they’d been there all year. The year I was six I couldn’t even peel the wrapper off.’ I remember the disappointment clearly. Inedible sweets as a birthday treat would be hard enough for me to comprehend now, let alone at that age.
‘Yes, the policy matures next week, and that’s how I’m paying to go. Actually, there’s enough there to pay what I need and still have some left over when I get back. Maybe even enough for a deposit on a small dance studio, if I can find a suitable space.’
I shake my head to try and take it all in. Africa? Dance teaching? Where has this newly geed-up Connie come from and what’s she done with my best friend?
Connie continues, her voice proud and brimming with positivity. ‘No more losing my cool when the spreadsheets don’t add up, no more days in a grey boxy office block with an air conditioning system that rattles like a haunted house at a funfair. I’ll be in Africa, doing something worthwhile. And then, hopefully, when I get back here I’ll be doing what I love.’
‘It sounds blissful,’ I smile, because it does. It absolutely does. Thanks to her mum’s foresight to plan ahead she was going to get the chance to live out her wildest dreams.
‘I’m over the moon for you, I really am,’ Issy adds, her words full of affection.
‘It’s going to be a real adventure. You’ll come back a woman of the world,’ I say with pride. ‘And it’s brilliant that your dad was so supportive. All that worry for nothing, and I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Don’t forget to tell him I’m only ten minutes’ drive away if he needs a hand with anything. Get him to ring me, promise? I can do a mean beef stew which’ll be perfect for those November evenings.’ My mouth waters at the thought of the stew, the solidity of the meat and the juicy, chunky winter vegetables an irresistible combination. ‘But I don’t want to iron,’ I say obstinately. ‘Anything but ironing!’
I catch Hope scrutinising my dress, a navy cotton number covered in pretty ditsy-print flowers in a variety of shades of pink. Now I look more closely it does have a decidedly crumpled air about it. I probably should have left it hanging on the shower rail a bit longer to ensure all the creases had dropped out.
‘Thanks, Mon,’ Connie says softly, ‘He’ll really appreciate that. Me too, of course. And although I can’t wait to go away, I know the minute I arrive I’ll be thinking of Sheffield, missing our catch-ups over coffee and cake on Ecclesall Road.’
I have to laugh. It’s only me that indulges in the creamy cappuccinos and doorstop wedges of Victoria sponge. Connie normally has a sparkling water and a banana.
‘But especially this,’ she says, gesturing around the room. ‘These past few weeks have been so much fun. And life-changing for me, too. Your encouragement was exactly what I needed to spur me on and I don’t think I’d have believed I could do it myself without you three believing in me first. So thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
‘You