Bridesmaids
ZARA STONELEY

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008320652

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008320645

Version: 2019-07-25

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Act One – With Friends Like These

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Act Two – The Hen Party

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Act Three – The Big Day

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Also by Zara Stoneley

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

In memory of my Dad. The best friend a girl could have had.

ACT ONE

Chapter 1

‘Oh my God! You’re kidding? Wow, that’s fantastic!!’ And just like that I’ve looked my best friend in the eye and told a whopper. I pause for breath and lean forward to hug Rachel. ‘That is absolutely amazing. I am so pleased for you!’ My words are muffled by her shoulder.

I’m not in the habit of telling lies. I have been known to exaggerate slightly (and maybe tell the occasional little white lie), mainly to make myself feel better about my (currently) shitty life, or to make somebody else feel better about theirs.

I mean, when cuddly Liz who runs the ‘Olde Fashioned Sweet Shoppe’ in town told me she’d lost weight, I felt duty bound to tell her she was looking amazing, even if the missing poundage was probably down to her severe haircut (think scalped-elf) or the fact she’d gone for leggings rather than jeans (think scalped skinny elf).

Eating less and exercising more is torture, isn’t it? Specially when you spend your days staring at chocolate and boiled sugar. So, when I saw her a week later and she said she’d won the slimmer of the week award, the last thing she needed was me asking, ‘Are you sure the scales were working?’ or ‘Are you the only slimmer there, ha-ha-ha?’, wasn’t it?

Whereas, hearing my little white lie, ‘Wow! You look fab!’ followed by, ‘I read somewhere that liquorice can really help’ was just the right incentive.

Us girls need to stick together, don’t we? We need to present a united front and kick ass. So, if that involves smudging the truth at the edges now and then, that’s fine.

I smudge rather a lot. But I don’t lie. Especially not to my best friend.

Until now.

This isn’t a smudge, this is total truth wipe out.

I should be ashamed of myself. I am.

I also feel slightly queasy, and I’m not sure if it’s because the whole idea of this is bringing me out in a cold sweat because of what happened to me, or because of what might happen to her. My bestie.

If I hadn’t lied maybe things would have turned out differently.

Maybe all this wouldn’t have happened.

It started with the phone call.

Well, let’s be honest, it started a long, long time ago. When we were teenagers with fragile hearts, dodgy self-confidence and far too many hormones. When we were sure that the first guy who tried to get into our knickers could be ‘The One’. When love and lust were the same thing.

But anyhow, the lie and the big stuff started when she called me. All breathless and excited.

I was distracted with work, knee deep in fluffy kittens, or I might have been concentrating harder, and might have had some inkling of what was to come and where it might lead us.

Chapter 2

‘Thank God I caught you before you jetted off! Is it okay that I rang you at work? You are at work, aren’t you?’

‘I am, well, I’m not actually at work, but I am working. Will you stop that?’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, not you, Rach. I’m at home, but I’m trying to … sit still, please, pretty please? Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I growl, and Rachel giggles. ‘I am working, well, trying to. Shit, why are kittens so bloody bouncy?’

‘Kittens? You’ve got kittens?’

‘Three. I think. They keep moving, it’s hard to keep track, but they’re colour coded. If they’d all been black I’d be totally up shit creek without a paddle. Stop it!’

‘Kittens! Like, real ones?’

‘Definitely real.’ I untangle one from my hair. ‘Would Sellotaping a paw to the table be considered cruelty? I mean, it’s not like I’m using glue, is it?’

‘Oh my God that’s so brilliant! Oh, I wish you lived closer, I’d be round there!’ She’s gone a bit shouty. I am confused. I never knew she was a cat lover.

‘Sticky tape?’ Nobody normally considers my ideas brilliant, and it’s not like I’ve just invented the stuff.

‘Not the tape bit, the having kittens bit!’

‘Well, er, fine. I’ve not given birth to them or anything clever.’ I’m not really concentrating on just how weird she’s being, I’m too busy trying to get one to remain upright. It just keeps keeling over onto its back and doing that ‘paws up’ thing. Cute, but unhelpful.

‘No, but it’s brilliant, you’re moving on, that’s so ace.’ She sighs. The sigh of relief. ‘I’ve been so bloody worried about you.’

I let go of the bundle of fluff that I’ve been holding in a ‘sit’ position and it flops over, then paddles the air with its little front paws.

‘Worried?’

‘Yeah, oh come on Jane, I’ve course I have. You’ve been so …’ she pauses, ‘not you since …’ She lets that dangle in the air, much like the kitten I’ve just spotted hanging from the back of a chair.

‘Andy?’ Andy is my ex. As in ex-fiancé. As in the man who decided he didn’t love me somewhere between going down on one knee with a ring and accompanying me up the aisle. Being dumped can leave you feeling kind of worthless, useless and totally unable to distinguish between ‘the one’ who actually loves you, and the fuckwit who didn’t at all.

He has been ‘he who must not be named’ for quite a while now. Mainly because hearing his name led either to an irrational outburst (from me), featuring lots of swear words, and descriptions about what I’d like to do to various parts of his anatomy, or, and this was so much worse, horrible, snot-inducing tears. Don’t you hate it when that happens, when you end up inside out and can’t stop?

‘Er, yes, him.’ She says it hesitantly, and there is a pause. I know she’s holding her breath hoping nothing horrible is about to happen.

‘Oh, Rach, please stop worrying. I told you, I’m fine. Totally fine. It was ages ago, I am so over him.’ The git. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was, but I’ve taken this one day at a time. I’ve stopped dating, because to be honest now I know my judgement is so far off it’s too scary. I’ve buried myself in work (not hard with my job) and talked a lot to the two people who mean most to me in the world: Freddie my flatmate, and Rachel.

There are many things I love about my best mate, Rachel: 1. She’s patient; 2. She’s caring; and 3. She’s honest, top the list.

She’s always been there for me, no questions asked. Good friends just know, don’t they? When to skirt round an issue because they know the wrong word could lead to a major incident, and when only a hug will do.

She’s obviously decided that kittens are significant in some weird and wonderful way though, which is slightly disturbing.

I just wish she didn’t worry quite so much. I’d always been the one looking out for both of us – as she’s so damned nice and easy to take advantage of. But lately we’d had a role reversal.

This time I’d been the one taken advantage of, and I guess I’d crumbled before her eyes (not a pretty sight). I’ve always liked to be in control. And I’d been in total control of planning my bloody wedding. Until Andy had pulled the plug, and suddenly I felt like I hadn’t got a clue what I should be doing. Everything I thought I stood for had been tossed into the air. I’d floundered. Well, more like come to a complete halt. Scared of doing right for doing wrong.

Then I’d woken up to the realisation that although I might not have had control over him and my love life, I did have control over the rest my life. So, with a few snivels along the way I’d pulled my socks up and prepared to kick ass. Of the work kind.

‘I can’t stop worrying, Jane! I love you, you know that. But this is brill, you’re committing. I’m proud!’

‘Proud? Committing? Stop right there Rachel.’ I hold my hands up in a stop position, even though she can’t see. Committing is not a word I want to hear. Commitment is a pathway that leads to disappointment and humiliation.

The kitten tilts its head on one side then makes a leap for me, misses and drops to the floor. ‘It’s just a kitten, oh, shit, it’s fallen off the table! Hell, hang on, hang on while I …’ I’m down on my hands and knees. ‘Do they break easily? I’m going to be drowning in the brown stuff if I send any back damaged. Lora will kill me.’ A second one follows it, lemming style and just misses my head.

‘Damaged? Send it back? Who is Lora?’

‘The girl up the road, you know at Number 20, the one with bright red hair and a nose ring? She fosters animals for that rescue place. She lent the kittens to me and I need some bloody good pics of them, or Coral will sack me. Christ, I can’t even catch the bloody thing now, it must be okay.’

At this point, I need to establish something, I am not an animal batterer. I love them. I especially love cats with all their haughty indifference, independence, and demands to be fed and petted when they feel like it. On their terms. They are ace. I’d quite like to be reincarnated as one.

You may pet me now, you may feed me tuna (well, not tuna; chocolate brownies, maybe), you may tickle me just here. Here! You may go away and leave me, or I will turn nasty.

See, cats have got life sussed.

Cats are totally within their rights to show their displeasure by yelling or swiping. There are times when swiping would work for me.

I realise I am about to growl, as an unbidden image of Dickhead Andy sneaks into my brain. Maybe I’m not completely fine. Anyway, I definitely haven’t forgiven him. I would so like to swipe him, claws at full stretch until he is shredded into something resembling pulled pork.

I know I need to rise above his fuckwittery and take the moral high ground. Karma will come and bite him on the arse one day, not a cat.

Okay, so you’re wondering what Andy did? Did he take me out for a romantic meal, then break the news that it was over? Did he walk out, and leave a ‘Dear John’ on a sticky note stuck to the fridge? Did he get cold feet when we booked a wedding date, a venue?

Oh, no. Andy did this properly.

I mean, what kind of fiancé tells you IT IS OVER in the middle of your flaming hen party? There I was with my leg wound round a Chippendale look-alike (as in semi-naked man, not item of furniture) when I felt a funny sensation in my lower regions. It wasn’t the over exuberant entertainment, it was my phone buzzing in my new super-tight leopard-skin trousers (yes, it had seemed a good idea at the time, they were on-trend and freebies from a photoshoot I was doing for my fashion-diva boss Coral).

I know I shouldn’t have looked. But I did. I thought he’d be sending me a funny text message. Not the cryptic ‘this isn’t working’.

‘It is for me! Ha-ha.’ texted back jovially, as the Chippendale gyrated, and cast off another layer of clothing.

‘We need to talk.’

This is not something Andy ever said in real life. It’s on the scale of him declaring he’d given up beer or football.

‘What’s up?’ I’d typed with the thumb that was holding my phone, because my other hand was otherwise engaged catching cast off clothing. I was expecting him to tell me his stag night had been cancelled or he was missing me.

I wasn’t expecting a ‘Dear John’.

A very long one. It definitely wouldn’t have fit on a sticky note. Not even a whole pad of them.

That should have set alarm bells off. I mean, who sends a text that is so long it doesn’t fit on the screen? This was saga length in shorthand. But I was on a high, having fun, excited that soon I would be walking down the aisle with my One.

Or not.

Apparently, my darling fiancé had realised we were totally incompatible. That I didn’t need him because I was far too busy with my job. That he knew I was building my career and wouldn’t want to be a stay at home mum, which, according to Andy, was the only way to bring up kids (I didn’t even know kids were on the table, let alone a clause in the mental pre-nup – or had he been planning an actual pre-nup?). That I had to be grown up and realise it wasn’t going to work (that bit made me want to be totally un-grown-up and yell like a toddler). That he also thought I needed to spend more time cooking (like his mum did) and ironing (like his mum did) and entertaining his bloody boss (you got it). I am paraphrasing a bit here, but all this came completely out of the blue. Domestic goddess I am not, but I didn’t think I needed to be. I am the ‘licking fingers and inviting people round’ side of Nigella, not the ‘slaving over a hot stove’ side.

I slithered down my Chippendale onto the floor, all melting and pathetic, and had to be scooped up by Rachel and helped to a chair. My bones had become all bendy and non-supporting, my brain scrambled, and my chest felt like it was fit to burst with pain.

When I got home I tore up all the scraps of paper I’d been practicing my new signature on, in a fury, then collapsed in a soggy mess on my bed and left lots of pleading messages on his voicemail.

Next morning, I was ashamed of my pathetic-ness and sent a few abusive ones.

Then I cut his head off all my photos. And a triangle out of the crotch area. And looked if Amazon Prime supplied Voodoo Dolls. They do, just in case you need to know for future reference.

Two weeks, lots of cancelled wedding arrangements, and a few crates of wine later I’d moved my (very) few odds and ends out of his flat and shoehorned them into my bedroom at Mum’s, rejigged all Andy’s carefully constructed playlists, sent his boss an invite to dinner at his mum’s (FORMAL DRESS! PLEASE BRING CHAMPAGNE! CABS WILL BE ARRANGED FOR MIDNIGHT!) and left iron shaped holes (to match the ones in the photos) in his best shirts. I know, it was childish, but it made me feel better for a short time.

‘Jane, Jane, are you still there? What’s happened?’

I shake my head, and blink, trying to regain my inner haughty cat composure and remember what Rachel was talking about.

‘Sure, sure. Just trying to catch the damned thing.’ I adore cats. I just love them less when I am trying to photograph them. Never work with animals or children? Yeah, yeah, yeah, whoever said that had a point. But some of us like a challenge. Or are slightly deranged.

Or desperate to impress the boss and rescue their job.

I wriggle on my stomach under the chair, my head on one side, cheek plastered to the floor so that I’m all squishy faced, making ‘Here, kitty-kitty’ noises. The wide-eyed kitten backs off in a kind of weird tarantula dance on its tip toes, until it has emerged on the other side. Its little back is arched and its tail all puffed up like a loo brush and it is jigging sideways, which makes me laugh. Mistake. The noise makes it spin round in alarm and it’s off.

‘Are you okay, Jane?’

‘I think,’ my cheek is still squashed so it comes out as ‘sink’, ‘I’m stuck. Not quite sure how I got under here.’ The trouble with this apartment is, it literally isn’t big enough to swing a cat in (not that I’d do such a thing, obviously).

‘How bijou!’ Mum had exclaimed – poking round into every nook and cranny the day I moved it.

‘You mean small. Bijou suggests small but tasteful.’ I’m not kidding myself.

‘Yes, dear. I mean small.’ She’d poked into one corner too many and was pulling her ‘dirty’ face. ‘But you can make it bijou darling.’ Then she’d spotted the gooey shaving foam without a top, and the toothbrush that looked like it had been used to scrub a skirting board, and doubt set in. ‘A small flat and a man doesn’t really work, believe me, darling. I do know. They take up too much space. Just look at your father, if he hadn’t had a shed we’d have been divorced before you’d left primary school.’

I’d bundled her out of the place, muttering the phrases the estate agent had about prices and bargain and aspect and foot on the ladder.

Small it is though. And we’ve crammed it with two people’s furniture. My flatmate and I both arrived with baggage – of the emotional and physical variety. Both can get in the way of life.

At the moment, though, I have more pressing problems that are getting in the way of life. I am currently jammed head first under a chair with my feet under a table and I’m going to have to perform a snake-like manoeuvre to get out.

‘Ouch.’ Snakes don’t have ankles, I do. A sore one. ‘Bugger.’

‘You okay?’

‘Think so, I’m out! It could be worse, I could have still been stuck under there when Freddie got back.’

Rachel giggles. ‘He might have taken advantage!’

‘Ha-ha. Bugger, it’s heading up the blinds now.’ The little ginger ninja is moving like Spider-man on a mission, mewling and rocking from side to side, and two more intrepid explorers have decided to join in. ‘There are three kittens scaling the blinds!’

I snap a quick shot with my mobile phone – I can’t not – and WhatsApp it to Rachel. Kitten number 1 is traversing chimpanzee-style (which is no mean feat when you haven’t got thumbs), while the other two are leaping about intent on grabbing its spiky, Christmas-tree tail.

‘Oh, God, you are so funny.’ She’s laughing, and I think from the sniffles, crying a bit. She also seems to be having difficulty breathing. ‘Oh, this so needs to be on YouTube.’

‘What? Oh, bugger! Don’t you dare!’ I suddenly realise I’ve accidentally gone into vid mode, and this is something I don’t even want to share with my bestest of best friends.

‘Hang on, I’m going to put you down, I need both hands.’ I throw my mobile onto the couch, then spin round suddenly scared I’ve squashed one of the fluffballs as there’s an alarmed squeak. I haven’t. Kitten number two has now made a leap from the blinds and is mid-air and dropping like a stone, with four rigid legs stuck out in all directions flying-squirrel-style. I stick my hands out, and its more luck than judgement that the soft furry lump lands splat in the middle of my palms. ‘Phew.’

‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’ Rachel is squawking from the couch.

‘I caught it!’ It stares up at me, all wide-eyed innocence. And those baby-blues catch at something in my throat as I pull it closer to my body and stroke it reassuringly. Though, I suspect the cuddling bit is more for my own benefit than the kitten’s. It doesn’t seem bothered, but it does start up a raspy uneven purr that rumbles straight to the centre of my heart. And finds a squishy bit I’d almost forgotten I have.

I swallow hard to dislodge the lump as it snuggles its way deeper into my hands, then sigh. I can feel the beat of its heart through my T-shirt, feel the warmth of its tiny body. Maybe I do need a cat. Or something. I’ve been acting like I’ve been allergic to bodily contact of any kind since Andy did the dirty. And I have in a way. I’ve been air-hugging as well as air-kissing, and it’s probably not good for my mental health. Humans need contact, warmth, touch … not just wine, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Pringles. Although those do help, don’t diss the simple solutions until you try them.

I glance up, and commando kitten number 1, the ginger ratbag, is slowly sliding down the blinds. It makes a leap onto my leg and clambers up me. I’m a human kitten tower.

I slump onto the couch, suddenly exhausted, scooping up the third kitten which is determinedly clambering up me and settle all three in my lap, then pick Rachel up.

‘You still there, Rach?’

‘I am.’

I take another quick photo and forward it.

‘Aww, aren’t they the cutest! Which one is yours?’

‘None of them!’

‘You’ve got to keep at least one.’

‘No, I have not!’ But I might. ‘They are props. I’m supposed to be taking photos for Queen Coral.’

‘Aren’t you always!’ She laughs, but it’s a little bit strained. My job is definitely a vocation. Nothing nine-to-five about it at all. ‘She never struck me as a kitten type of person, though.’

‘She’s not. She wants me to take a picture of her flaming lipstick and an apple, the kittens were my idea, a kind of peace gesture.’ I shrug. ‘She can take it or leave it.’ I flop back further into the cushions. ‘Do you ever wish you hadn’t started something?’ One of the kittens stretches out in its sleep, tiny toes splayed, and I can’t help it. I stroke its cute pink pads, and its paw curls round my fingertip in a baby hug. I want to kiss those tiny toes, that little nose. I think this is the closest I’ve ever felt to maternal. ‘I think I need to ditch the felines and concentrate on the apple. Still-life is a bloody sight easier.’

‘And since when did you do easy?’ I can hear the smile in Rachel’s voice.

‘True. Look, soz, Rachel, but I suppose I better get on with this and at least take the shot she’s after before I lose the light. I’m expecting her to call soon with a new set of demands.’

‘Yeah, sure! I just wanted to catch you before you jetted off, check you were okay and tell you,’ there’s a slight hesitation in her voice, ‘I’ve got some news. Big news.’

‘Big?’

‘Mega!’

‘Tell!’

‘I can’t! But something exciting has happened, crumbs I hope you’re as excited as me! I think you will be, well, I hope …’

‘Rach! You can’t do this to me! Of course, I’ll be excited. Tell!’ Even if the actual thing doesn’t excite me, the fact that Rachel loves it so much will mean I will, too – for her.

‘I’ve got to. You’ll never guess! But you mustn’t, no, no don’t even try, I’m not telling you! I can’t tell you on the phone, I need to see you in person. Face to face, so I can check what you think.’ I smile to myself. I love it when Rachel is excited, she makes the whole world seem a brighter place. It’s infectious. ‘I just,’ she hesitates, ‘need to know you’re okay with it. You might be …’

The silence lengthens.

‘Be what?’

‘Upset?’

‘Why would I be upset? Rach, you’re worrying me!’

‘Soz. I don’t mean to, I mean it is good, honest, just a bit, well, I need to see you when I tell you. When are you back, Jane?’

‘You’re honestly not going to tell me? You’re going all weird on me, and not telling me?’

‘Nope. I want to tell you in person.’

‘FaceTime?’

‘In real person! How long are you here for when you get back? You’re not going to tell me you’re zooming off straight away again?’ Rachel runs out of steam and sounds breathless. Giddy with excitement, as my mum would say.

‘No, I won’t be zooming anywhere!’ I laugh a bit self-consciously. I might, or might not, have mentioned to my mate (well, all my mates, and most of my family, and everybody I know on Facebook) that I am about to jet off on an important business trip to New York. I couldn’t help myself, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.

‘Promise? We can meet up as soon as you’re home?’

‘Promise.’ I won’t be going anywhere, apart from work, for quite some time. My credit card is totally maxed out because I’ve been on a massive spending spree.

For a moment I forget about my lap full of kittens, and I even forget about Andy.

I’ve been buying clothes for the trip. Talk about excited, I’ve never been to New York before, I’ve never set foot in any part of the U. S. of A. This is the trip of a lifetime, well worth a new outfit or six. ‘We can meet up the moment I get back.’

‘So, you’re back on the 25th? Can you make the 26th? Or will you have jet lag?’

‘I’ll be fine, the 26th is great.’

‘Brilliant! I need to see you, Jane! How about we meet me at that new Jax Bar in town at 7 p.m.?’

I’ve known Rachel for years, since we bonded over a stolen ciggie (yes, I packed them in years ago) behind the bike sheds at high school after we’d both found out we hadn’t got tickets to see the Spice Girls.

We were in different school years, but right then it didn’t matter.

I was eleven, coming up twelve, and Rach had already hit that milestone. And back then she seemed way, way older than me. She was an August birthday, just into the second year of big school but one of the youngest, and I was a September birthday, one of the oldest in my year but still trying to find my feet. A newbie to the scary, big world of high school. But that day we gelled.

I had a sneaking suspicion that my Dad hadn’t actually tried very hard at all to get the damned things. It was probably his idea of hell being surrounded by screaming teenyboppers leaping around as bubbly Emma Bunton and Scary Spice strutted their stuff round a Christmas tree (although thinking back, maybe not). But, anyhow, I’d found out over toast and marmalade that I had lost possibly my last ever chance to see some real Girl Power live and I was in a strop.

So was Rachel.

It was a defining moment, our own small act of Girl Power defiance, as we wagged Wednesday afternoon PE and stomped on the weed-ridden tarmac, punching the air and yelling ‘Tell me what you want, what you really, really want’ at the top of our voices. I reckon we got a far better work out than we would have done with Ms Stainton and a wooden horse in the freezing gym.

We were mates after that. In school she had her gang, and I had mine, but we’d walk home together, hang out at weekends and as we got older the fact that we were in different school years mattered less and less. By the time I walked out of those school gates for the last time, we were inseparable. Joined at the hip, as Mum laughingly said.

After school we were closer than ever for a while, but then she started spending more and more time with her boyfriend Michael, and I made the decision to move further south with Andy when he got offered a better job. Then I took on a job that involved loads of travel and unsociable hours, so we saw less and less of each other, even though we’d gas on the phone for hours sometimes. It’s not like we’re miles from each other, but life can kind of get in the way, can’t it? But Rach is always the person I tell first about anything. Well, anything major, my flatmate Freddie often finds out the minor stuff first these days, because he’s there. In situ. As in, on our shared couch.

I told Rach I was engaged before I’d even told my mum. She helped me pick my dress, the flowers, the bridesmaids, even my undies. Then she was the person who put me back together again when it all went wrong.

She took a week off work and camped out in the flat. Then she left strict instructions for Freddie and made sure she rang me every single day when she went back home.

‘Oh, come on Rach! What’s so big you can’t tell me over the phone?’ I shake my head and can’t help but smile.

‘I’ll tell you when I see you, it’s a surprise! I know I shouldn’t have mentioned it now, but I couldn’t help it. Now, are you all ready for the trip?’ This shows how excited she is – Rachel is a very considerate, caring person. Asking about my trip would normally have been her top priority.

‘Nearly! I’ve just got to do this one shot and then I’ve got two days off before we go.’

‘Wow, the mighty Coral has given you time off?’ She giggles, and I join in. The hours I put into this job (and the crap I put up with) are ridiculous, but I see it as an investment. This is my apprenticeship. One day, I won’t be the un-credited photographer for a glossy Instagrammer, I’ll be taking the photos I want, my way. But for now, as my only qualification is a GCSE in Art and I can’t afford to take time out and do a course, this is my way in. Along with my role as unofficial pet photographer for the local animal rescue centre. I’m working on that one though. Pet Portrait-er might not have the same ring to it as Photographer to the Stars, but I reckon it’s a good second string to my bow. There will always be dogs, right? And it has to be easier than taking pics of babies. Or cats.

‘She has, we’ve got a backlog of photos to post over the next few days, then the next ones will be in New York!’

Rachel squeals. ‘Ooh, I’m so excited for you! You’re my jet-setting friend, I tell everybody they’re your photos and not hers.’

‘I was lucky to get this chance.’

‘Bollocks to you being the lucky one!’

I was though. Serendipity don’t they call it? It was one of those one in a thousand things when I’d bumped into Coral on Millennium Bridge. Literally. Well, I was trying to take a photo and she nudged me with her bony elbows so hard I would have toppled in if Health and Safety precautions hadn’t been in place.

We had a bit of a stand-off, mobile phones at the ready. Me wrapping one leg round a rail so she couldn’t dislodge me from the prime spot.

Normally I’m an easy-going kind of person, and if she’d have asked nicely I’d have budged over, but it was her attitude that made me bristle.

She told me who she was, expecting me to recognise her name (I didn’t), then showed me her Instagram feed which was full of pretty boring photos. Then I saw her stats. She had tens of thousands of followers. Tens of thousands. Most of them under age for at least some kind of legal activity. I don’t think I’m her demographic, but I ask you, how had she got so many followers? I had more like ten.

Turns out Coral was a blogger, big time. She had sponsorship, bucket loads of free stuff sent to her every week, and a devoted following.

We compared the shots we’d just taken and before I knew it I had a job taking the pictures for her Instagram feed. Sadly, my role as photographer had also morphed into PA and general dogsbody, as she was a bit of a madam and had nobody else to boss around. And sometimes I find it hard to say no.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do. And before I met Coral I’d been on the verge of taking a part-time admin job with the company Andy worked for, just to help boost my income until I started to build a reputation. He’d never been that interested in my career to be honest and saw taking photos as my little hobby and had done his best to persuade me to turn it into just that. And he had the killer reasoning that we did, after all, have to save up for our wedding. So why couldn’t I do a proper job for a bit?

So it felt like fate meeting Coral that day. It had stopped me putting a hold on my dreams and spending my days filing and photocopying. Andy wasn’t keen at all, but, I mean, if I’d taken that role he’d wanted me too, I’d really be in a mess now. No way could I have faced up to him every single day. I’d have been far too tempted to feed him into the shredder or slip something nasty into the water cooler and accidentally kill everybody in the company.

But I need this job more than ever now. I don’t want Andy to be proved right, that it’s just a hobby. Because it isn’t. This is my apprenticeship, and one day the time will be right to strike out on my own. But right now, it’s my security blanket.

Without Coral, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent, and I’d lose my flat, and Freddie, and everything.

I love Freddie my flatmate. Not in a lustful way – the shag-a-thon way would completely wreck everything, and I could never in a million years do that to us. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.

A man who I don’t need to shave my legs or comb my hair for. Though I do of course. I just don’t always have the time or inclination to de-fuzz bits of me that nobody is going to see. And after a burger it is just so hard to hold my stomach in and think sexy. It’s actually a relief to be living with somebody and not have to think about all that.

So that’s me in a nutshell. Wannabe photographer, average weight, slightly above average height, red hair, green eyes, no five-year plan, slightly forgetful, verging on sluttery, one flatmate called Freddie, half of a very small flat.

‘She was lucky to get you!’

‘Oh, I do love you, Rach.’

‘Love you back.’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’ll see you on the 26th then?’

‘You will! Can’t wait to hear your news.’

‘Hey, Jane? Keep one of those kittens! That ginger one, it is so you.’

‘I can’t, I’m away too much. I’m off to New York!’

‘Get it when you get back, ask Lora to keep it.’

‘But I’m …’

‘Freddie will feed it when you’re not there! You know he will, he’d do anything for you. See you soon,’ I can hear her blowing kisses. ‘Keep it!’

I put my mobile down, and stare at my lapful of purr-i-ness, they’re rumbling so much my legs are vibrating. How on earth can she say that a kitten is so ‘me’?

It has its tiny pink tongue stuck out between its lips and its toes are twitching.

I know for a fact I don’t do that.

Chapter 3

‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ A waft of air from the front door, and the clunk of a heavy bag being dropped sends the kittens scattering in all directions.

Freddie is standing in the doorway, his big trademark grin on his face. He even uses it when cold callers and religious types knock on the door. It makes their day.

I’m not his honey, it’s a joke. We’re flatmates, but we’re like an old married couple without the married bit. Or the old.

He’s all lanky and loose-limbed, like a Great Dane puppy. But with the floppy fringe of a cocker spaniel. I don’t normally liken people to dogs, honest, but it works with Freddie.

Kitten number 1 has emerged from under the couch and is staring up at him, with a look of wonder on its little face. It’s cute, okay, I admit it. Very cute. Big eyed, button-nosed cute.

‘Oh my God, cuteness overload.’

See? ‘You sound so soppy.’ I look at all the ginger and white hairs on my black leggings. I so shouldn’t even consider keeping one.

‘I don’t care.’ He’s down on his hands and knees making baby noises, and the kitten is onto him in an instant. Literally. Marching over with a slightly sideways swagger like it thinks it’s a real big cat, with its spiky tail stuck in the air. All mixed up attitude and neediness in one small package.

Freddie scoops it up and rolls over on his back and I swear I see the tiny creature fall in love. The other two kittens emerge from their hiding places wondering what they’re missing out on, then scramble up onto his chest and join in the purr-a-thon. ‘Aren’t you the handsomest guy in the world?’ Ginger purrs louder, then opens its little pink mouth in a soundless miaow. ‘Aww, baby.’ Freddie props himself up on his elbow and looks at me, head tilted slightly on one side. ‘This mean you’re ready for love again?’ He winks.

‘Oh, God, don’t you start! They are kittens, right?’

‘Right on,’ he holds one up in the air, ‘definitely kittens.’

‘I need help, Freddie.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ He raises an eyebrow and chuckles. ‘Though that is the first step to recovery, admitting—’

‘Sod off.’ I can’t help but grin back and nudge him in the ribs with my foot. ‘They’re a photoshoot not a therapy session.’

‘Shush. Don’t call them that.’ He covers the kitten’s ears with his hands. ‘Kitties have feelings too you know.’

I ignore him. ‘And they won’t stay still. Why won’t kittens just sit?’

‘You’re confusing them with dogs, and men.’

‘I need to get a decent shot, and I need to get a photo of that flaming apple on a white plate with lipstick before Coral rings.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘Well, how about,’ he pulls himself up, so he’s got his back resting against the couch, ‘it just sits on my knee? I could hold it sneakily to make sure it doesn’t move. You know put a finger on its tail, out of sight? Like this?’ He demonstrates, and the kitten rolls over in indignation, wraps its whole body round his finger, kicks like crazy and bites him. I hope that this isn’t what Rachel means by the ‘so you’ bit.

‘Ooh, you’re a little tough nut, aren’t you?’ He tickles its tummy and it flops back, all languid and blissful. Feet in the air, and I’m a tiny bit jealous. ‘Aww, so gorgeous, are we keeping them?’

‘No, we’re not! I’m taking photo’s for Coral’s Instagram page, and said I’d do a few for promo for the rescue centre.’

‘We should rescue one! A house is not a home …’

‘Well, you can clean the litter tray!’

‘Really?’

I groan. ‘You’re being serious, aren’t you? You want a kitten! Gawd, you’re as bad as Rach.’

‘Maybe.’ He tickles the kitten under its chin, and the purring starts up again. ‘Look, the perfect picture.’

‘Cute, but your finger is in the way, and I’m not sure the ripped jeans make the perfect backdrop.’

Freddie’s jeans are not ripped in a designer way, they’re ripped in a ‘we’ve been through a lot together and I can’t bear to part with them and they’re very comfy’ way.

It’s not Coral’s way. Coral doesn’t do comfy. Coral would sue me if I posted anything resembling un-touched-up reality on her Insta feed.

And I’m not convinced it will help with re-homing the kittens.

‘I could put a blanket on my knee?’ He pulls the throw off the sofa.

‘It’s a bit up and down, they’re only tiny. You can’t see its legs now.’

‘We could put a board underneath?’ He improvises with a magazine. ‘Mag, blanket, kitten. Ta-dah!’ He throws his hands out and the kitten slides off his knee, faceplants between his ankles then rolls over and attacks his leg. ‘Maybe not.’

I have to laugh. See what I mean about him being the best thing? What boyfriend would go to that kind of trouble? I’d be a total fool to ever think about him in any way other than just a mate, despite him being ever so slightly sexy when he pads through the place in the morning; bare-chested, with bare feet and his hair all tousled.

And makes me coffee.

Then goes away without a word.

No conversation required.

He is priceless.

I bumped into Freddie a few days after my world imploded, and he more or less saved my life.

There I was, at an all time low, my life all but over (I’d got a bit melodramatic, which I think I was entitled to). I’d been dumped mid hen-party, had a horribly demanding boss who just then was doing my head in, and had nowhere to live. Even though I love my mum, living with your happily married parents when you’ve just hit thirty, and it looks like you’re going to be a spinster for ever, and you’ve just woken up to the fact that there’s more chance of your eggs getting hard-boiled then producing babies, is not a recipe for happiness. One more day and one of us would have cracked. Nastily.

So, I’d strolled confidently into an estate agents’ office. All naïve and excited about my new life as a single independent woman earning a wage.

Okay, I wasn’t excited, I was exhausted from crying, full of self-doubt and needing to find a cave to hole up in. But I was naïve. That bit is true.

‘I’m looking for a flat to rent. Something like that.’ I’d said to the guy by the desk, pointing at what I thought was an unassuming but nice apartment.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ He wasn’t being very helpful. ‘Very. How, er, much are they charging?’

‘Haven’t got a clue.’ He grinned. Quite a nice grin. ‘A lot I’d imagine.’

I smiled back, feeling slightly awkward, not quite sure what to say next.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t find much in your price range.’ A tall, slim, blonde, immaculate vision in killer heels and a tight skirt rudely interrupted our smile-a-thon. ‘Apart from this.’ She passed him the details with a dismissive sniff.

Ahh, so that figured, he didn’t actually work here. I felt myself colour up but couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder.

It was the smallest hovel, next to a railway line, overlooking bin-alley and on the drug dealing route. Okay, I might be exaggerating the very tiniest bit. About the drug-dealing. But it was daylight hours, so who knows? The really terrifying part of it all though, was that the monthly rent was roughly the amount I’d had in mind as affordable.

Turned out my type of salary didn’t stretch to a roof over my head and food. The two would appear to be mutually exclusive.

Bummer.

Anyhow, gloomy was not the word. I mean I’d thought I’d be able to at least afford something that was halfway decent. And I really, as in really, liked the flat that I’d spotted when I walked in. It said ‘home’ to me.

Turns out I was delusional.

‘Were you interested in that one?’ She’d dismissed him and moved on to me. ‘It’s in an up-and-coming area. Very on-trend.’ She’d looked me up and down and made me not feel on-trend. ‘Well-maintained.’ She was doing it again. Cow. Bits of me might not be particularly well-maintained, but other bits are fine. I nodded mutely. ‘Very reasonable.’ She named a figure and I reckon I blanched. Reasonable it was not. Well, not for a normal person.

I think I may have squeaked.

Anyway, the smiley guy realised I’d been stuck dumbstruck. ‘I think she needs to think about it, we’ll come back later?’ His hands were on my shoulders and he’d spun me round and whisked me out of the office and before I knew it we were walking down the street together.

‘That’s shocking.’ I’d finally found my voice again.

‘Totally. Shit isn’t it trying to find a place round here?’

‘It is indeed shit.’

‘You don’t fancy a restorative coffee, do you? Just to get over the shock of that place?’ He pointed up, and I realised we’d slowed to a halt outside a café.

‘Yes, er, well, I don’t normally have coffee with strange men, I don’t want you to think …’

‘I’m not strange. Trust me!’ He winked, and I wanted to. Trust him. I felt a kind of glimmer of recognition, like I’d known him for years. Comfortable is the word I suppose. Safe.

‘Well, I suppose you do look harmless.’

‘Now,’ he held a finger up, ‘I didn’t say that!’

Anyway, just as I was wondering whether this was how you met ‘the One’, and if this was the moment to state clearly that I was never, ever going to get my knickers off for a man again in my whole life. That I was all about getting my career established and some money saved up for a house deposit. Though, ha, fat chance of me being able to ever do that solo. Unless I slept in a bin. Or trawled the streets for somebody who wanted to share a flat with me. Just as all that was whizzing through my brain, he interrupted me.

‘You don’t recognise me, do you Janey?’

Turns out I was right. He was familiar.

He wasn’t a random stranger, and my feelings weren’t those of kindred spirits destined to be together, but meeting at the wrong moment in their lives. It was much more down to earth than that.

‘It’s me, Freddie! I hung around with Matt at school?’

‘Oh, shit, you’re kidding? Freddie! Wow, sorry, I just didn’t recognise you, it’s the hair, the top, the …’ Body, I wanted to say, but stopped myself.

Now he’d told me, I definitely did remember him. But he’d changed. Back then he’d been a bit of a geek; lanky, quiet. Sweet. Whereas his mate Matt was all front. A cocky bugger who was a bit of a dish and knew it.

Freddie was the cheeky one, who played the fool some of the time (like when he nicked my yoghurt) but most of the time blended into the background. Into Matt’s shadow.

I grin. ‘You said you weren’t strange!’

‘I’m not. Now.’ He grins back. ‘I was a teenager back then, we’re all strange.’

‘You can say that again!’

‘All we think about is getting off, footie, having it off, computer games, what a normal sex drive is, food and, well, sex.’

‘Most of those seem to be the same thing.’ I arch an eyebrow in what I hope is a sophisticated not a pervy way.

‘Exactly, being a ‘yoof’ is bloody hard work.’

I laugh at the way he says yoof, it’s so completely not-Freddie.

So, anyway, I did know him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did.

Well, who knows, I might have done. I was bloody desperate. And he was laid back and friendly, not pervy at all.

We got chatting over coffee, then ended up being practically swept out at closing time, and we moved onto the pub on the corner and realised we were in the same boat. Roughly.

Well, he hadn’t been dumped, and he wasn’t currently living with his mum. But he was being chucked out of the flat he was currently sharing, because the other two flatmates had become a far too cosy couple. And he wasn’t really ready to settle for living in a dump but couldn’t afford somewhere up-and-coming on his own.

After two drinks, Freddie waggled the card that the estate agent had given him. ‘Shall we call her? We could just about afford that flat you’d fancied, between us. Or is that a bit weird? You can ignore me if it’s too weird. I’m not usually this forward but it’s just I’m solvent, got an okay job, pretty well house-trained, you’re, er,’ I wait for him to say desperate, but he doesn’t, ‘keen on the same place as me, and we do kind of know each other, and, er, I think it could work.’

When I’d spotted that flat I’d just felt deep down it was the One. Even though the rent had made me feel queasy, I’d been tempted with youthful optimism, to arrange a viewing anyway. Even if it was far, far more expensive than I could afford.

I’m not quite sure what I thought would happen, even I knew that estate agents didn’t tend to come with soft hearts and big discounts.

In my head while the agent had been talking to Freddie, I’d been fantasising, but all the while knowing that I couldn’t really afford to take it on, on my own.

Freddie was peering over his pint at me. ‘You really liked it, didn’t you?’

And with those few words there was some kind of unspoken agreement between us. We’d hit on the idea. We could take the place on together. So, we did.

Without knowing it Freddie had turned into my knight in shining armour.

That was well over a year ago, so we’ve been together longer than a lot of couples I know.

We also bicker a lot less. Though he does take the mickey a bit sometimes. But he has supported me through the Andy years, and I’ve supported him through the revolving doors years. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he shags round, he just seems to pick the wrong girls. Which I am beginning to suspect he does on purpose.

‘Oh, sugar.’ My phone beeps with the alarm I set earlier and stops my musings about Freddie. ‘I’m going to have to ditch the kittens for now and do the apple. You couldn’t look after them for a bit could you?’ I give him a slightly beseeching look. ‘Please, I’m begging?’ I indicate the kittens, then do a go away flap with my hands, and try to do my own imitation of cute, which I’m not sure I pull off.

‘Boy, you’re demanding, if only I’d known what I was letting myself in for when I signed that flat share contract!’

But I know he’s kidding.

He gets to his feet and expertly scoops up all three little felines in his big capable hands. ‘Come on fellas.’

‘I think one of them might be a fellee.’

‘We’ll be in my room if you need us.’

‘You’re a star, I owe you one!’

‘Several I’d say.’ He winks and kicks open the lounge door. ‘I can take them back to Lora’s if you like, on my way to the pub?’

I feel a totally irrational twinge in my stomach. Freddie likes Lora. He keeps saying he doesn’t, that they’re mates like we are, but he’s round there in an instant if he has an excuse. And I’ve seen the look in his eye.

I want Freddie to be happy, but I’m ashamed to say I’m selfish enough to not want to lose him. Not yet. And anyway, Lora would be a disaster. She’s far too calculating for Freddie, and she’s had more men than hot dinners this year.

Okay, I’m being bitchy. I confess. I don’t want to lose my best – well, only – male friend. Though Lora is a bit of a ‘rum ’un’ as my uncle used to say. Freddie deserves better.

I’m also being daft. He’s offering to help me out, and I’m not so silly that I don’t realise what a good move it would be to say, yes.

‘Wow, would you? That would be so helpful. There’s a basket thing in the kitchen. I’ll pop in and see her later, tell her I’ll try again tomorrow if she likes. I’d do it myself, but Coral will be calling any sec to discuss last minute plans.’

Freddie rolls his eyes. ‘We’re definitely out of here if Queen C is calling. See you later, and don’t take any shit from her ladyship.’ He blows me a kiss, then holds up a kitten and waves its little paw in the air. ‘Bye-bye Mummy! Love you! Don’t send me away, purry pleeeease!’

I shake my head at him. ‘Shoo!’

Chapter 4

I have an apple, and I have a white plate. Oh, and a very red lipstick. And less than an hour to create an Instagram image that will leave Coral’s fans and sponsors wetting their knickers – with excitement not incontinence. She has a very youthful following.

She wants to plug a lipstick she’s been sent (Oh, God, I love these cosmetics, I need them to send more, make it good or I’ll fucking kill you), and she also wants a nod towards her (or should I say our?) trip to New York. She suggested I took a bite out of it and left an artistic lip print. Have you ever tried to do that? This apple looks like it’s been ravaged by a vampire two seconds after a blood sucking session.

I doodle a lipstick heart on the plate and reach for a fresh apple just as Darth Vader suddenly explodes into the silence. Well, not actually Darth himself, it’s my ringtone. Which means it is her: Coral – you have to find fun where you can, don’t you?

‘Where are you?’

No ‘Hello’ or other pleasantry. ‘Hi, Coral! I’m just doing this lipstick shot; I think the bite isn’t—’

‘Oh, forget that.’ I can picture her making a dismissive motion with one red-talon-tipped hand (she gets a free weekly manicure as well). ‘Take the day off.’

‘But I—’ I was about to point out that it is already five o’clock and the day is nearly done, and I was also going to say I needed the money so I wasn’t about to forget anything, but she interrupts me again.

‘What difference is one more day? You’ll be taking nearly three weeks, anyway.’

‘Three weeks? But, New York isn’t hol—’

‘Oh, didn’t I say? I don’t need you tagging along with me any more.’

‘What? Tagging? But—’

‘I’ve decided you’ll cramp my style – this is New York, darling, not some suburban—’

‘But, photos, you need photos taking.’

‘Crystal will help me.’

‘Who’s Crystal?’ I know I sound suspicious but I can’t help it.

‘She’s American.’ She says it like that means she is everything I am not. Stylish, for one. ‘She follows my blog and suggested this trip, she’s so dynamic, so savvy, so … with it, you know?’ I’m already sick of hearing about Crystal. ‘And it’s more of a holiday than anything. You can run off and do whatever you do, water plants or find a boyfriend, or something. You’re always saying you don’t get enough free time. When was the last time you had sex? Use it or lose it love.’ She makes a disgusting squelchy noise, which, luckily, I find easy to ignore.

‘But … but, I’ve got a ticket and everything. I’ve told everybody I’m jetting off with you in two days. Two days!’

‘Oh, I cancelled your ticket after …’ there is a long pause, then, ‘the incident with the dog.’

The line goes silent. My bitch of a boss is letting her words sink in.

‘You cancelled it three days ago and you never told me!’ My hand clenches into a fist. If she was here now, I’d be having trouble resisting the urge to strangle her or shove the bloody lipstick-scarred apple down her throat.

She is a complete cow – she knows how much this trip means to me and this is the most evil payback ever. I (apparently) screwed up with her #MondayMotivation picture. Daniel’s dog-in-a-bag photo had ten times as many ‘likes’. And Daniel is her arch Insta-rival. Which is why I’ve called in the kittens.

This was not my fault though. Everybody knows a puppy will trump the latest trend any day of the week (apart from #FreebieFriday), and how was I to know he’d spring Lucy the long-haired Chihuahua on the world?

‘I told you he was looking at luxury pet stuff!’ I’d spotted Daniel had started following a designer of diamanté dog collars – but Coral had poo-pooed my suspicions. So it’s her fault she’s in the doggy-do not mine.

‘Have you finished?’ She’s sounding bored.

‘But I’ve got kittens!’ I haven’t had time to talk kittens. I was going to surprise her once I’d got the perfect shot. With her flaming lipstick at the side if necessary.

‘I haven’t got time for that now. We’ll talk about kittens when I get home.’

‘They’ll have grown by then.’

‘Well, get new ones. Very cute ones. Very tiny ones, smaller than Daniel’s cock-sized offering.’

‘I don’t think kittens come that sma—’

‘Oh, whatever, I don’t care. I pay you to come up with the ideas, not bother me with-’

‘You pay me to take—’ I am about to say, take the photographs, but I don’t get the chance.

‘Do what you have to,’ she’s hissing, ‘to make this up to me. Then we’ll see.’ I can hear the click of her nails tapping on the phone. It’s a horrible sound and normally I’d just ring off.

‘So, I can come?’ My little begging voice sounds pathetic even to my own ears. I hate myself.

‘No.’

‘It is so not fair to pull the plug on my trip. I work evening and weekends and …’ I spend my whole life trailing round after her. She has killed my social life, and any hope of ever getting laid again, dead.

‘You should just count yourself lucky you’ve still got a job. Now, I must fly, I’ve got packing to do, and I need a manicure.’

‘Fine. I’ll have a holiday.’ I sound like a stubborn child, I know. ‘I’ll go to Ibiza.’

‘You do that. Don’t forget to post those photos, though, will you? Have you done my big apple?’

I feel like telling her where she can stuff her big apple, and let’s just say it’s in a place where the sun doesn’t shine. I reckon there is steam coming out of my ears. I can’t speak, just mouth soundlessly. But it doesn’t matter, she just takes my silence as agreement and goes off to pack.

I throw the bloody apple across the room, where it hits the window with a satisfying squelch, then I sink down onto the floor and put my head in my hands.

How could she do this to me? Devastated is not the word. Not that I wanted to go with her, but New York, I ask you. I could have begged, I should have begged. I think I might have been whimpering, and if she’d have been here, I might have been tempted to lick her feet (no, I wouldn’t, I take that back).

I don’t know why I put up with her.

Well, I do, I need the money.

I need the flat. I need Freddie.

My phone pings. Maybe it’s a last-minute reprieve? Maybe she actually has got a heart?

It’s a text from Rachel: Have fun in New York, I’m well jel! xx

Me, too.

Chapter 5

‘Trouble with the apple, babes?’ Freddie, slumps down on the settee behind me and ruffles my hair, which is slightly annoying, but I can’t be bothered to thump him like I normally would. For the ruffling and for the ‘babes’ – which he only does to get a reaction. He leans in to take a closer look at me, and his brow furrows. ‘Wow, you really are upset. What’s up? What’s Coral the cow done now? Demanded the kitties have a mani, pedi and close shave before she even entertains the thought of them appearing on her feed?’

I can’t even raise a glimmer of a smile. I sigh and blink. As well as being an excellent kitten wrangler, he’s also good for chatting to, but I can’t work out how to speak about her without either screaming or crying. So, I change the subject.

‘Was Lora okay?’

‘She wasn’t in. Some long-haired lout in a biker jacket answered the door. I gave him my hard “Hurt these kittens and you are so dead, mate” stare.’

‘I bet he was quaking in his biker boots.’ Deep inside, I feel a slight lift: I’m pleased Lora wasn’t there, it makes me feel very slightly better.

‘Crocs. He had pink Crocs on, not boots. That’s why I dared glare at him.’

‘Ahh … you’re just a big wuss at heart.’

‘Sure am. You did explain to Coral what you meant by close-ups of a ginger pussy, didn’t you?’ He nudges me with his elbow.

‘Eugh, stop it. That’s disgusting.’ But I can’t help the tiniest of smiles from teasing at my taut face muscles. I actually feel like I’ve got a very thick face mask on and it’s set like concrete.

‘Wow mate, this is serious, isn’t it?’ He’s spotted the debris on the table. He eyes up the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I’ve opened, the biggest pizza the guy at Domino’s would make for me (sometimes even a Mighty Meaty needs extra toppings), the tub of Ben and Jerry’s Salted Caramel Brownie, and the box of man-sized tissues with suspicion. ‘None of this was here when I went out a couple of hours ago.’

I nod.

‘I thought you said you were going carb free until you got to the Big Apple.’

‘If I do that,’ I swallow away the lump in my throat, ‘I will die of malnutrition.’

He waits. He’s good at waiting and listening. Like the old Golden Retriever I had when I was a teenager.

‘Because I’m not going.’ I take another big bite of pizza and try to swallow it down past the lump in my throat. And nearly choke. Freddie bangs me hard on the back, helpfully. ‘No Big Apple for me.’

‘What? But, you’re flying out in two days, you’ve bought stuff, you’ve packed. I thought she was dead set on going, that she had her eye on the U.S. and—’

‘She is, she has, it’s just me that isn’t going.’ I take a deep breath. ‘She cancelled my ticket.’

‘Why the hell would she do that? She needs you!’

‘She doesn’t need me, she’s got Crystal.’

‘Crystal?’ There’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his generous mouth, and I know he’s dying to laugh. ‘Coral and Crystal, you’re kidding me? Are they a new double act?’

‘Crystal is her American friend.’ I smile, despite myself. It’s hard not to.

‘So, she dumped you for some American photographer?’

‘She dumped me because of bloody Daniel.’

‘Daniel? Is that her new shag?’

‘No, he’s that stupid flaming Instagrammer she’s at war with.’ I bury my face in my hands.

‘Ahh.’

‘Sorry,’ I glance up at him through my fingers, ‘I was shouting, wasn’t I? Sorry. He’s the one with the puppy.’

‘So that’s why you’d got kittens?’

‘You got it in one.’ I top up my wine glass and wave the bottle in his direction.

‘It’s okay, I’ve got beer!’ He sinks down onto the carpet next to me and helps himself to pizza. ‘Bloody hell, what are those brown bits?’

I peer at his slice. ‘Anchovy.’

‘Are you sure that goes with the sausage?’

‘Anchovy goes with everything, and so does sour cream.’

‘Wondered what that was. So, this Daniel?’

‘He’s got more likes this month than she has, way more. This is her way of getting even. She says if she loses any sponsorship she will die.’ I try my best to say the last word in her melodramatic way.

‘What a cow. Shame you didn’t tip her into the Thames while you had the chance.’ Freddie knows all about how Coral and I met, and most things that have happened since.

He drapes his arm over my shoulders and squeezes. It’s nice, even nicer than the image of Coral flapping about in the murky brown water in her designer gear.

I’m tempted to just grab him and blub into his shirt, but I don’t think he signed up for that level of interaction when he agreed a flat share.

‘And …’ I bite my lip, trying to hold in the sudden rush of anguish. I’ve not really come to terms with the New York bit yet, it’s not sunk in, but this bit has. It is here and now, and it hurts. I wave my mobile his way. ‘I was just trying to book a cheap deal to Ibiza.’ A tear trickles past my defences, so I scrub my cheek with the back of my hand and hope he hasn’t noticed. ‘But I can’t.’ It comes out as a bit of a wail. ‘My credit card won’t play ball, I can’t even book the most economy of economy flights, the crappiest airline in the world refused to take me because I’m maxed out,’ I rub my forearm over my face, the back of my hand isn’t coping, ‘buying all those frigging clothes.’

‘Oh, shit. Oh, hell, Jane, but you don’t need to go away, do you? You can stay here, have some free time and …’ His voice tails off. Then his eyes twinkle at me. ‘We can play with kittens?’

‘What is it with you and kittens?’ I frown at him, suddenly worried that he has some unhealthy fetish and I’ve got him all wrong.

He sighs. ‘I was thinking about you, not me. But hands up I’m man enough to admit that I need cuddles and cute as much as the next person.’

‘Amy was quite cute …’ I pause. ‘And cuddly.’ Amy was the girl he brought back a couple of weeks ago, and boy was she into cuddles. In a man-eating, down the throat, kiss your face off, crawl all over you like a rash kind of way.

I’d hidden in the bedroom in case she’d accidentally got confused and clambered over me as well. And because it was making me feel a bit queasy.

‘Cuddly as a polar bear.’ He pulls a funny face and does a clawing gesture. Girls flock to Freddie like bees to a honey pot, but he rations the stuff, then tells them to buzz off after a very short time. If he hits three weeks with the same girl I start to get scared she’ll be moving in, or he’ll be moving out. Three weeks for Freddie is heavy. But the moment they get familiar with the contents of our cupboards, he starts the retreat. There was one girl, Annie, who he seemed to like; he ended up rearranging all our food (I nearly had an incident when I grabbed the coffee and it turned out it was gravy granules) so that he could kid himself that she hadn’t got her feet under the table. I’ve not got to the bottom of it yet, but I will. ‘But kittens don’t come with strings attached, do they?’

‘I hope not.’ Although strings might have been handy on the photoshoot front.

‘You can just chill with them, they have no expectations, they’re not planning the future you’ve not agreed to.’

‘Just their next meal.’

We both contemplate a relationship with a cat. Then I snap out of it. If I’m not careful it will be slippers and cocoa next.

‘I can’t have a staycation. I told Coral I was going to Ibiza, and she lives on social media so I’ve got to post photos on Facebook because if she gets the slightest hint that I’m still here, or pissed off or sulking then she’ll be onto me in an instant. She’ll be gloating, making my life even more of a misery, then she’ll probably sack me for being a wuss.’ I grimace. ‘She hates wusses.’ Coral loves to be in control, she’s an out and out bully, but she likes to think she’s controlling people with backbone, not easy targets. God, the woman is totally power crazy. And deluded.

Freddie munches on some pizza for a few minutes. Then swills it down with his beer. ‘Hate to tell you, but this anchovy idea is wrong on so many levels.’

‘Name one.’

‘Salt. Too much.’ He tries another bit, flicking the fishy bit off onto my slice. We’re like an old married couple, swapping the bits we don’t like. ‘I’ve got it!’ He sits upright, abruptly. ‘We’ll go to Brighton.’

‘I’ve got it’ and ‘Brighton’ aren’t two phrases I’d normally put together.

‘Come again?’

‘My parents place. Come on,’ he nudges me, ‘you’d be doing me a favour, it’s boring going on my own.’ I don’t know that much personal stuff about Freddie, but I do know that his parents are currently swanning around in their villa in Italy and his good-son duties including regular trips to check up on their house. Tidy up, move post, weed the path and generally make sure it doesn’t look neglected.

When we first lived together, his periodic disappearing act had intrigued me. Me and Rach had invented all kinds of elaborate scenarios – like he was a spy on a mission, or had a secret wife and family, or had a cannabis den.

Then I spoiled things by asking him, because I’m nosy.

I mean, Brighton is a bit of a killer on the exciting escapades front, doesn’t exactly say 007 or Mission Impossible, does it? Though I’m sure it’s a lovely place. And lively. And the home of DJ’s and raves and stuff.

‘We’ll use it as a hideaway, then you won’t get spotted and you can pretend you’re in Ibiza.’

‘I can?’

‘You can.’

‘Er, there are holes in that solution. Like no sun and a pier.’

He winks. ‘Post photos of Spain – I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ve got some rave ones from when I was a student.’

‘Oh, Freddie.’ I can’t help myself. It’s the wine and the emotion and the relief. I fling myself at him. He freezes for a second.

We do occasional clap on the back type hugs, but not this type. Then he pats my back awkwardly, in a there-there kind of way, then unexpectedly hugs me properly. Then disengages. We both launch ourselves at the pizza, gorging on chunks of stuffed crust, and surreptitiously edge an inch or two away from each other suddenly mega aware that our knees had been touching.

I clear my throat.

‘So, er, you got pissed in Ibiza? You went to raves?’

‘All-nighters, making the moves, babe.’ He makes a few very strange moves.

‘I think it might be better to stop doing that.’ I giggle.

‘You’ve seen nothing until you’ve seen techno, Freddie.’

‘Haven’t you got to go to work?’

‘I’m owed time off, and besides, it’ll be good going together. It’s fun. You really do need to tell that cow where to get off though.’

‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know, and I will, just not yet.’ I’ve only just got used to the idea that Andy could change my life like he did and that I could do nothing about it. Right now, I’ve got a reliable income and a home I like, I’m not ready to risk losing it all.

‘I know. You’ll get there.’ He winks, then holds his beer bottle up. ‘What do you say? Brighton then?’

‘Brighton.’ We clink.

Desperate times require desperate measures – so, Brighton it is.

Chapter 6

I need to pack for Brighton, and right now I’m thinking a rucksack with spare jeans and a few T-shirts is all I need.

This is partly because, 1. it is probably all I need, and, 2. I don’t want to have to unzip my flaming suitcase and face all my lovely US-bound clobber, which I still haven’t unpacked.

I’m not quite ready for a reminder that I should soon be heading to the airport for a long flight, and bubbly, and hilarity and jetlag and the promise of NEW YORK (yes, I know I’ve gone shouty) and cocktails and, well, New York.

‘Jane, door for you!’

Freddie’s yell stops me giving my innocent suitcase the evil eye. Sugar, I’m not supposed to be here! I’m supposed to have jetted off. Why is anybody at the door for me? Unless Coral actually has realised not even she can be that evil, and has sent a taxi?

I realise I’m flapping round, spinning in a circle. Trying to decide if I should dive in the wardrobe or under the bed, or if Freddie will come in after me and I’ll look even more foolish than I already feel.

I stop.

Stop panicking. That’s tomorrow. I am supposed to be here today. I am here.

‘Surprise!’ I spin round and it’s Rachel.

‘Rach! What the hell are you doing here?’ Rachel is never here. Rachel doesn’t live anywhere near me.

‘Crappy work conference, so I thought I’d see if I could catch you before you went!’ She throws herself on the bed, dramatically. ‘You’ve got to save me from my earnest colleagues.’ She rolls her eyes, then spots the case. ‘Wow, are you sure that case is big enough? I’d be taking one double that size if it was me. You are just so cool about all this.’

‘No, I’m not.’ I shove the suitcase off the bed and flop down beside her. ‘I’m not being cool.’

‘God, you are. I am so envious of your jet set lifestyle.’

‘Don’t be.’ I close my eyes, then open them and peep at her. Lying on the bed next to me. ‘Can you keep a secret, Rach?’

She props herself up on one elbow.

‘Course I can! We can do swapsies. You first.’

‘I’m not going to New York.’ I avoid her eye as I say it.

‘Really?’ She sits up a bit higher and I can feel her staring at me. ‘But, you’ve packed, and …’

‘You don’t need to tell me.’ I groan and put my hands over my eyes. ‘I’ve packed, spent up and told the whole world about it. What will everybody say?’

‘Fuck everybody else. It’s you I care about!’ She drags my hands away and looks into my eyes, which have gone a bit blurry.

Saying it out loud has made me feel sorry for myself.

‘Aww, hell, Jane, you were so looking forward to it.’ She wraps me in a hug and I try not to sniffle. ‘What happened?’

‘Coral happened.’ Freddie’s deep voice rumbles unexpectedly into the room. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Bugger off.’ We both shout at the same time, then Rachel levers herself up.

‘She’s not sacked her? She’s not sacked you?’

‘No, she’s not sacked me. She just decided she doesn’t need me.’

‘Oh, Jane, what a cow.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not.’

‘It was just a shock. I will be fine.’

‘She’ll be fine once she gets to Brighton!’ Freddie is still lounging in the doorway, a safe distance away from the girlie fray.

‘Wow, you’re going to Brighton?’ Rachel’s eyes have gone all big and wide, and I can practically see her brain going into overdrive. ‘Together? Have I missed something?’

‘You’ve not missed anything.’ I sigh and dig her in the ribs to cover my embarrassment. ‘Freddie’s got to check his parents’ place and I’m going with him.’ I shrug. ‘That’s all. No big deal!’

‘What do you mean, no big deal?’ Freddie acts hurt, but winks to show he doesn’t mean it. ‘And we’re going to pretend we’re in Ibiza!’

Rachel chuckles. She’s got one of those deep, rolling infectious laughs which makes you smile. ‘That’ll take a special kind of filter, won’t it?’

‘I’m going to post old pics. I can’t admit to Coral that I’ve not gone.’

‘Ahh.’

‘But you mustn’t tell.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Nobody, not a single person. If it gets out she will crucify me.’

‘Promise. I guess I owe you a secret then?’ Her eyes are twinkling, and she’s gone a bit pink and bashful looking, which isn’t my normal Rachel.

‘Tell!’

‘Well …’ She takes a deep breath, then glances at Freddie, and back at me. ‘That’s why I came round. I’m so crap, I just can’t keep secrets, I can’t wait until you get back, I can’t not tell you!’

We’re all holding our breath. The suspense is killing me. The silence goes on, and on, and she’s glancing from me to Freddie and back again.

‘I’m getting married!’ It comes out in a whoosh.

‘Shit, you’re not?’ I realise the second the words explode from my big mouth that this is not the right thing to say. I give a ‘Help me’ glance over her shoulder at Freddie.

‘Oh, God, I knew you’d take this badly. I’m so, so sorry, Jane. I mean, I know you’ve had such a shitty time, that’s why I needed to tell you in person.’ She glances at Freddie again and I realise now, she hasn’t just come here because of a boring conference, she’s come here to tell me because she knew Freddie would be here. The guy who helped her pick up the pieces after my wedding-that-wasn’t. ‘Weddings can work out, Jane. I’m as sure as I can be, I just know he’s the One for—’

‘Stop it, you two! I know exactly what you’re both thinking.’ Rachel colours up, but Freddie brazens it out. ‘I’m not anti-wedding.’ They both avoid my gaze. ‘I’m not! I’m so over Andy. This is nothing to do with me, it’s you I’m worried about. You hardly know him, Rach!’ I feel weak at the knees, good job I’m sat on the bed. ‘I know not every man is like Andy. But he could be an axe murderer, or a swindler, or, or, a bigamist!’ I know I’m clutching at straws here, and the duvet actually, but I’m in shock.

My bestie can’t be allowed to plight her troth to smooth-talking Jed, who’s persuaded her he’s the One. As far as I know, she’s only had a chat on Facebook, two dates and a shag with him. That does not a relationship make.

I don’t want to be a damp squib, but there’s rushing and there’s going at the speed only required after far too many drinks when you need a bucket, or an extremely spicy curry that’s turned your tummy to molten lava and is demanding a quick exit.

And this is indecent haste, and the stunning blonde-haired, blue-eyed, bubbly Rachel is not a girl who needs to grab the first guy who offers. Not that anybody should, but Rachel has always had them queuing up.

‘What?’ She frowns at me, looking puzzled. ‘Of course, I know him! I’ve known him ages. What are you on about?’

I take a deep breath of my own and put my hands calmly on her shoulders. ‘Rach, you’ve only just met Jed.’

‘Oh!’ Relief settles on her face as she puts her hand over her mouth, and giggles. ‘It’s not Jed, you idiot!’

Phew.

‘It’s Michael!’

This is the point where I should sigh with relief and say, ‘silly me’. But I do not. Instead my stomach bottoms out. ‘You are kidding?’

Her face says it all, this is no joke.

So, I do it, I tell that whopping great lie.

‘Oh my God! Wow!’ I pause for breath and lean forward to hug her. ‘That is absolutely fantastic. I am so pleased for you!’

She tilts her head back, looking worried.

‘Honest?’

‘Really. Sorry, it was just a shock, I thought you guys had split for good. That’s what I meant by kidding, ha-ha. Wow, that’s amazing! Fab! Ace! I’m so pleased for you.’ A glance at Freddie confirms that I might be overcompensating here, his eyebrows are raised so high they’ve gone past his fringe and merged into his hairline.

I mentally reel myself in and zip my mouth.

But my head can’t stop thinking this is wrong. A mistake. Someone tell me I’m dreaming.

Michael? How can she be marrying Michael? Bastard two-timing Michael who I caught doing the dirty with luscious Lexie (I only know her name because he happened to be chanting it at the time) and made him swear he’d never do it again or I’d tell Rach everything, just before I tore him limb from limb.

We had never had any secrets and I’d hated not telling her, but I hated more the thought that if I told her the truth it could wreck our friendship. I mean, who would she believe, the smooth-talker she loved and planned to spend the rest of her life with – or her friend? I didn’t want to put her in that position.

And he did say it was just one stupid impulsive action that he’d regret forever and had promised it would never happen again. But he’d also called it ‘a minor transgression’ – yes, he really does talk like that.

And I’d umm-ed and ahh-ed but, I have to be totally honest, it all happened just before my hen party and I was so caught up in all my wedding stuff, that I kind of didn’t give it the thought I should have.

Daft thing is, drunk on vodka and love on my hen night, I’d decided to come clean with Rachel and was on the verge of spilling. She was my best friend and I’d felt secure in the knowledge (ha-ha) that I’d found true love, and I wanted to make sure she’d be as happy as me. I wanted everybody to be in the same state of bliss as I was!

Can you believe it? Talk about rubbish timing.

I never got to tell her. The Andy bombshell hit and it went right out of my head, it just didn’t seem as important as my own broken heart. Nothing was as important as my car-crash of a life. Which obviously makes me a pretty shitty friend.

How could I not have told her?

We spent so many hours together, on the phone, FaceTime-ing, texting, while she was doing the good-friend bit and looking after me. And I just felt sorry for myself and let her do the propping up.

And now I’d left it far too late. Telling her just after it happened would have been one thing, but telling her so long after? How could I find the right time to explain? And I didn’t want to lose her. I’d been totally selfish. How pathetic am I? I was scared sick of losing her, the very thought brought me out in a cold sweat.

Without her and Freddie looking after me in the aftermath, who knows what I would have done? I mean, I’ve never thought of myself as the suicidal type, but without somebody to kick me out of my wallowing in the mornings I would have lost my job, and without somebody to tell me when I was very close to the line between enough and too much drink life would have been seriously blurred.

Instead, it had just been normal pissed blurred and hazy.

And so, I’d decided to believe Michael when he said that he’d ever never hurt her, rather than doing what a good friend should. What she’d do for me.

And then Rach and Michael had split over some girl he’d snogged at an office party. So, it had all been fine. Over. Finished. I could breathe again, no need to sweat about whether I should tell her.

I mean, I did still hate myself for not having the guts to tell her, but I convinced myself that what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her now.

Michael was history.

Or not, it would seem.

I stop talking, hug her hard, and bury my head in her shoulder, which gives me chance to compose myself and plaster a bright smile on my face, rather than burst into noisy tears. Which is what my face wants to do.

Michael is back. Forever.

I hate Michael. There, I’ve said it. I’m not the jealous type, but I am the protective type. And lovely, generous, and it must be said slightly too trusting Rachel, needs somebody to watch her back. I used to do it at school, and I can’t seem to break the habit.

I need to stop her marrying a douchebag.

He’s just not good enough for her, and there’s just something about him that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And made me punch the air and inwardly whoop when she’d told me they’d split. Though I did of course make all the right sympathetic noises and say things like ‘for the best’ and ‘there’s somebody better out there for you.’.

‘Oh, Jane, I’m so pleased you’re happy for me.’ Rachel hugs me stronger. ‘I know it’s been hard for you since Andy …’ She lets his name hang in the air between us. We both know that he left a rather sour taste in my mouth, and a slight (mega) distrust of the whole ‘love you ’til the day I die’ thing.

‘This isn’t about me and Andy, it’s about you!’ The pressure is definitely on to make sure that she doesn’t think any of this is sour grapes on my side. That my bad experience hasn’t poisoned me against the whole marriage idea.

And it hasn’t. I’m happy for her if she really has found ‘the One’ and wants to tie the knot. Just not happy about it being Michael.

Though who knows what affect her hen night is going to have on me – but I’ll tackle that one when I get to it. I’m sure there are enough legal highs, combined with gin, to get me through one evening without tears.

‘But what about Jed?’ I’ve disentangled myself, and am now thinking that Jed might have been a good option after all. ‘He seemed really nice.’

‘Oh.’ She giggles again. ‘He was just to show Michael what he was missing and make him jealous, and it worked! Jed knew it wasn’t serious, we never actually slept together, you know.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Oh, God, no. Well, we slept, but we had all our clothes on.’ Seems like I’m not the only one who tells little white lies. ‘He totally knew all about Michael, and how I was still mad about him. Me and Jed were just mates!’

Is it wrong that I am feeling deflated? I’d inwardly cheered when I’d thought she’d engaged on a moving-on night of frantic passion.

‘Oh, God, Jane, Michael was so sweet. He said it was a complete wake-up call and he’d realised he never wanted to risk losing me again, and, well …’ She glances at me, her eyes bright and shiny with emotion. She’s genuinely about-to-cry happy.

The rush of emotion catches me unawares, and I find myself blinking back the tears then hugging her again.

A manly cough interrupts our love-in. ‘Well, there’s no bubbly, but I can do a mean mini glass of beer if you want to celebrate?’

I look at Freddie. ‘Mini?’

‘We’re going to have to share a bottle. Last one, I was saving it for …’

‘A special occasion?’

‘The footie.’

‘I appreciate the sacrifice.’

‘So do I.’ Rachel is nodding furiously.

He grins and we toast the bride to be with a tot of lager in shot glasses.

‘I suppose I better get back to the hotel and,’ she does little quote signs with her fingers, ‘get networking.’

‘I suppose I better get back to my unpacking and packing.’

We hug on the doorstep, Freddie yells a goodbye from his position where he’s hunkered down on the sofa.

‘Have a great time in Brighton.’ She winks. ‘You never know!’

‘Rachel, don’t be disgusting, that would be like shagging your brother!’

She shrugs. ‘Well, you never know, and he is kinda cute now he’s grown up.’

I do an eye roll. ‘So are kittens.’

‘Well, get one of those!’

‘No!’

‘Shit is that the time? I’m going to get crucified if I don’t make it before the bar shuts. I better run.’

We hug again and she half steps out, then turns and grasps my hands in hers.

‘Christ, I nearly forgot! You will be my bridesmaid, won’t you? I just kind of assumed, but say, yes, please say, yes!’ She’s crushing my fingers and jiggling about.

‘You betcha.’ She finally let’s go, so I high-five her. ‘I’d have been gutted if you hadn’t asked!’

‘Girlie night when you get back, so you can meet the others! That’s what I was planning at Jax. You are going to get such a shock when you see who they are!’

‘Really? So, I’m not your one and only.’ I do a pretend pout. ‘Who?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see, but you will be totes gobsmacked!’ She shakes her head, then suddenly whoops and claps. ‘Oh my God! Wow! I know!’ She’s got a crazy grin on her face, which is a bit scary. ‘Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Scrub Jax bar, we’ll all come to Brighton! It’ll be way more fun.’

‘Brighton?’ I stare at her blankly.

‘Brighton! Next week! Oh my God, it’ll be ace, we can all get the late train back or stay over. I’m sure they will be up for it. You are going to be so amazed!’

‘But …’

‘Oh, no, I’m ruining your love fest, aren’t I?’

‘It’s not a love fest!’

‘You’ve gone red!’

‘I always go red when I’m embarrassed.’

‘Because you’d planned a shagathon!’

‘No.’ I clamp my hand over her mouth. ‘Shhh, he’ll hear.’

‘You do fancy him though.’ She’s all muffled, but I know exactly what she’s saying. She might as well be shouting it through a loud hailer.

‘I bloody don’t. He’s just Freddie.’ I am embarrassed, I am as hot as a hot tin roof that a cat can’t stand on. ‘He’s he’s …’ Has she been in my head, seen all those rude visions of Freddie licking cream off my nipples and kissing my neck? I mean, all that doesn’t mean I fancy him in real life, nobody would ever accuse me of thinking I could have a relationship with Bradley Cooper just because I can totally see him throwing me naked onto the lid of a grand piano, are they? See.

‘You’ve gone really bright red now! I knew it!’

‘You don’t know anything! I was thinking about Bradley Cooper actually. Freddie is a friend. I don’t think of him like that!’ Which is partly true, I don’t actually think of him being like that in real life, it’s just a weird fantasy that keeps me happy. It also saves me spending hours on Tinder trying to find somebody I want to swipe right.

‘Ha!’

‘He’s not sexy!’ I might have shouted that bit. Partly to cover up the fact that the in-my-head Freddie is sexier than any man I’ve ever known. But that is because he’s the fantasy Freddie. Not the real Freddie.

‘Whatever.’ She shakes herself free. But she’s grinning. ‘So, are we on, then? Can we all come to Brighton?’

‘You can come to Brighton!’

‘That is so cool.’ She has a broad smile on her face and looks very pleased with herself. ‘Brighton rocks!’ She gives me the thumbs up and squeals.

‘How many is all?’

I don’t get an answer. She is off down the steps and slamming the front door behind her before I can object.

I stand, catching flies, then close my mouth.

There are two big issues here: 1. Michael. Michael is a very big issue. If she’s actually going to marry him, do I tell her now about his ‘transgression’, before it’s too late? I mean, what if he was lying and he’s had ‘transgressions’ before? What if she thinks I’m trying to fuck up her wedding on purpose? Or just un-asks me to be a bridesmaid, and un-friends me. In real life, not just on Facebook. And issue number 2. The (as yet unnamed) bridesmaids. Pretending I’m partay-ing in Ibiza when I’m pounding the prom in Brighton had at least a remote chance of success when only me and Freddie were in on it, but is the week really going to be leak free if there’s a big girls’ night out involved?

I turn round and Freddie is there, a strange half-smile on his face.

‘Shit, did you hear that?’

‘Some of it.’

‘Sorry, she’s mad. She’s just desperate to hook me up with another guy, God she’s so embarrassing.’ My voice tails off. Which bit did he hear? I was pretty loud when I said he wasn’t sexy. And he is. Not that I want him to know I think that, of course, but I’d be gutted if even Ron, the beer-bellied, bum hanging-out, belching builder from number 27 bellowed that down the street about me. And if I heard Freddie say it I’d be mortified.

Devastated.

‘You are, er, sexy. Very.’ I think I’m digging a hole here. ‘Lots of people think so.’

‘But not you?’ He’s smiling, but it’s tinged with something I don’t quite understand.

‘Oh, I do, too. Definitely. I just didn’t want Rach to jump to any kind of, you know, she’s about to get married and she’s all loved and thinks everybody else should be.’

‘And you don’t want to be?’

‘Not, er, right now.’ I flap the bottom of my T-shirt, hoping the fresh air will go all the way up to my face. ‘You know I don’t.’

I look at Freddie. Freddie looks at me. ‘And not with me?’

‘Well, er, if I was looking, I mean, I wouldn’t, er, put you in the “no-way” category.’ He’s frowning. ‘You’d be much higher than “no-way”. Definitely. I think maybe I should stop now before I embarrass myself. You. Both of us.’

‘I’m cool, not embarrassed at all. In fact, I’m quite intrigued about this no-way category and where I fit. Feel free to carry on.’ He grins. A proper Freddie grin.

Right now, I could just jump him, give him a smacker and tell him exactly where he sits on the sexy scale. But he’s my bloody friend, and one kiss would ruin everything for ever. On an embarrassment scale if nothing else. And, I mean, let’s face it, I’m totally in love with him as a friend, but I already know he’s not ready to settle down, don’t I? We’d be doomed. I’d be in a worse mess than post-Andy. Because at least then I had Freddie.

‘I’ll shut up. Safer.’ I need to change the conversation here, I glance round, desperate for inspiration. Then spot my case. Ha-ha! ‘We need to talk about Brighton, what the hell are we going to do about Brighton? They’re all coming!’

He shrugs, takes the one and half strides it takes to reach the sofa, and switches the TV on. Then he pats the sofa, inviting me to join him. ‘We need Mission Impossible – Tom would know what to do!’

We’re cool.

Chapter 7

I am in shock. The whole ‘no New York’ thing rattled my cage, and after that wedding announcement I feel like Rach has dropped a bloody big boulder on me and left me feeling totally flattened. I can’t get my head round everything.

I feel like my best friend is heading for a car crash and 1 can’t do anything about it. Feeling helpless and out of control is so not my thing.

I should have told her, I know I should have. Ages ago. When it happened.

But if I sow the evil seed of doubt in her mind now, then everything could be off – our friendship, and her wedding. I know what that feels like. I went to pieces and I’ve always thought of myself as a strong person, so what would it do to Rach?

And I could be wrong. Saint Michael might have cast off his sins and been reborn. Now all I can think about is St Michael’s mount, and it’s the word mount that is bouncing around in my head. Eek, bounce was so the wrong word.

This could all go horribly wrong and I could let her down. Andy is bound to be there, because he knows Michael, and so will lots of other people who were supposed to be coming to our wedding. And she’s asked me to be her bridesmaid! I think I’m fine, I think I’m totally over it, but what if the whole walking down the aisle in a pretty dress brings me out in hives and makes me puke? Or yell blue murder at an inappropriate point, such as when the vicar asks if anybody sees any reasons why they can’t be married. Or bump the bride out of the way and yell ‘it should have been me’? Or (and let’s face it, this is most likely), just look glum and tearful on what is supposed to be the happiest day of Rachel’s life.

Note to self: not only do I not make an appealing enough bride, I also do not make a good best friend.

I need her to get married on a desert island with only a monkey and coconut tree in attendance.

Or I need to develop some kind of lurgy that is non-life-threatening but highly contagious. I could say I’ve caught ringworm off the kittens (sorry kittens). Nobody likes a fungal infection, do they?

I spend the first couple of days in Brighton licking my wounds, and many slices of pizza, and quite a lot of fish and chips with Freddie and then I realise that I really do need a kick up the arse. This is because, 1. It isn’t fair on him that I’m such a miserable git, 2. My jeans will burst if I don’t quit eating so much crap, 3. The girls will arrive soon and I have to put on a happy face for Rach and, 4. being here is actually fun. Though I am very sad that I can’t post my hilarious photos of us on Insta.

The one I got of him with a seagull hovering six inches above his head is a classic. And our selfie with the top of the Royal Pavilion looking like it’s a crown on my head is pretty good, even if I say so myself. And so is the sunset, and the one of Freddie snogging the giant terrapin in Sea Life – honestly, you’d really think they were puckering up for real.

Okay, the sunset wasn’t hilarious, or even funny, but it was beautiful. We’d sat side by side in silence, in awe, and I’d really wanted to reach out for a hand to hold.

But that was fantasy Freddie. The version of him that somehow manages to occupy my brain every now and then (and sometimes brings on a hot flush).

Real Freddie is different.

There is no hand-holding involved. He is a friend. Just a friend, who turned to look at me just as I’d turned to look at him. For a second, we’d shared a look, then we’d both glanced away, back out to sea and been disproportionality interested in the waves.

‘Thanks for this.’

‘The ice cream?’ Freddie grins.

‘No, you idiot, for everything. Bringing me here, cheering me up.’

‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’

I smile. I’ve never had a male friend like Freddie before. He’s currently nearly on a par with fantasy Freddie, the one who (in my head) is currently walking with me barefoot on the sand, rubbing that spot between my thumb and forefinger that makes me go all tingly.

I mean, we all need dreams, don’t we? And dreams are a safe option – no disappointments, no ugly reality, just pure unadulterated pleasure and total control.

‘Cockle?’ He dips his cocktail stick into the tiny tub and lifts the ugly little mollusc into the air. My tingles stop.

I grin and shake my head, thinking of my gran’s old saying about ‘warming the cockles of your heart’. Freddie warms mine. At least I think it’s my cockles. ‘Yeah, but it’s kind of going above and beyond …’

He shrugs. ‘I was due some holiday anyway, and I like coming here.’ He stares at me, and for a moment his gaze locks with mine. I’d never noticed how beautiful his eyes were before, how intense and dark. I feel a brief shiver of some feeling I can’t pin down, then he glances away and points at the seagulls. ‘Hurry up and eat that or they’ll be dive bombing you.’

I am about to hurry up, when my phone pings. ‘It’s Rach!’

Freddie nods, waits, as I look at the text.

‘How’s Brighton?’

‘Great.’

‘How’s Freddie?’

‘Rach! Will you stop it?’

‘Ha-ha just wondering. We’re all set for the bridesmaids booze up – see you Friday!’

‘Aren’t you going to tell me who’s coming?’

‘Nope.’

‘Oh, come on, can’t you give me at least a hint? I’ve spent all my spare time scouring your Facebook and Insta feeds for clues!’

‘No way, I want to see your face!’

This is a teensy bit worrying. I have, in between ice cream eating with Freddie, been wondering why my best friend cannot tell me who am I going to be walking down the aisle with.

There are several worrying scenarios: 1. One or more of the girls were supposed to be my bridesmaids. This thought makes me a bit queasy; 2. Some of Rachel’s gang are girls that really didn’t like me at all at school; and 3. A combination of both.

‘See you Friday, can’t wait! Love you Rx’

I know they say that your school days are the best days of your life, but how often is that true? I spent a huge proportion of mine worrying about not being liked, not being kissed and not wearing the right gear.

And, as far as friends go, well, I trusted Rach … but the rest? Girls can be bitchy, cliquey and spiteful, as well as supportive, lovely and generous. And there’s often a fine line …

I frown at Freddie, well, not at him. Past him. ‘At least I know it won’t be Andy!’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Sorry, Rach was talking about the bridesmaids.’

‘True, he’d look rubbish in a dress, not got the legs.’

We grin at each other, mine a bit strained, his soft at the edges. ‘Stop worrying.’

‘I can’t help it. What if they’re people I hate?’

‘Is that really what you’re worried about?’

‘Yes. Well, no. Gawd, it’s the whole wedding thing, Freddie.’ I bury my head in my hands for a moment, which is better than in the sand I guess. ‘Why does all the crap stuff come at once?’

‘It’s to test your mettle as one of my up-themselves teachers used to say.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘You are okay, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yeah, groovy, babe! I’ve got a rubbish job, got ditched just as I was about to go to New York, and now I’ve got to be thrilled for Rach with all this wedding stuff, and I’ve got to go to her hen party! Arghh.’ I pretend to tear my hair out and he laughs, then hugs me.

‘I mean it Jane. Are you sure you can do this?’ The concern in his eyes brings a lump to my throat. ‘The wedding I mean.’

‘She’s my best friend, Freddie. I can’t not do it.’

‘You haven’t got to do anything. She’ll understand if you say you can’t cope.’

‘I can cope.’

‘It’s not going to send you loopy again?’ His voice is light and his words funny, but I know that he’s bothered. Oh, sweet, sweet Freddie, where would I be without you?

‘Look …’ I’ve got to be honest with him. I’m never anything but, we’ve always been able to talk, and after I’d poured out my heart (and most of my insides) after Andy had dumped me, there’d been no going back. I’d not wanted to go back. ‘Okay, part of me is dreading this.’ He nods. ‘But I’m excited for her as well. I’m just a bit nervous about what it will be like, doing all the stuff I did.’ Our gazes lock. ‘It’s the hen party that’s going to be the weird one, I mean, I never actually walked up the aisle, did I? So that can’t be such a biggie.’

‘It can.’ He smiles, a soft smile that reaches his eyes – and my heart.

‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘it can, it is. I think I need to know that these other bridesmaids are going to be there to pick me up if I fall.’

‘I’ll be there, if they’re not.’

‘You’re too nice for me.’ I kiss him on the cheek, and the roughness of the slight stubble against my lips sends a shiver down me that I didn’t expect.

‘Hmm, I’m not sure nice is what my manly side needs to hear!’ He chuckles, then gives me a brief tight hug. ‘You’re not going to fall.’ It’s odd, but just for a second, with his warm hand on my shoulder, I totally believe him. I can do this.

‘Come on, eat up, before—’

Right on cue a seagull swoops down and it’s heading right for my nose. ‘Shit!’ I scramble up and take a couple of steps back, and it swoops back. I run, dodging the benches, dashing round the bus stop and the damned thing is preparing to dive bomb. Jumping in the air, I fling the ice cream Freddie’s way (it’s all me, me, me it appears when I’m under attack). He swerves, my lovely cornet goes splodge and the bird lands next to it and stares. Giving me the beady eye and a squawk.

I double up, hands on knees, panting from the unexpected exertion, and shock. ‘Bugger, I was enjoying that.’

‘Told you! Never fling food around in Brighton, they’re the food police.’ He nods at the bird.

‘Mafia more like. That bird looks evil.’

We share a look. The dangerous intense-stare bit has been forgotten, which is good. Lick the icing off the cake and you risk ruining the lot, don’t you? Then feeling sick and wishing you hadn’t.

I reach for my camera, but the seagull has scarpered, and Freddie is laughing. ‘You always did take photos of everything, didn’t you? I remember at school.’

‘Everything!’ It’s cute that he remembers, but a bit embarrassing. I don’t remember much about him at all. I guess I was one self-obsessed teen who didn’t look beyond my groups of girlfriends, and the odd show-off cocky guy who was hot. I don’t think Freddie was hot back then, he was the quiet, geeky type.

But as I think about it, something deep in my memory stirs. Freddie helping us set up our photo exhibition for our GCSE exam, Freddie embarrassed when we both reached for the same picture, then more embarrassed when we dropped it, and both bent down to pick it up.

Freddie who painted the unassuming black-and-white still-life pictures that made something catch in my throat, even though I was a brash teenager who couldn’t explain why.

‘Your pictures were ace.’

‘Pretentious, “chocolate box” was how one art teacher described them, I think,’ he says without a trace of rancour.

‘They were good.’

‘They wanted Banksy and anger, not broken hearts and whimsy.’

‘They were wrong.’ I snap a picture of him, then one of our feet on the sand, so that I don’t have to look him in the eye and be embarrassed. ‘You’ve got quite big feet, haven’t you?’

‘You know what they say?’ He jiggles his eyebrows, then glances down, a cheeky grin on his face.

‘No, what’s that then?’ I try to keep a straight face and fail.

He colours up, a slight tinge of pink along his cheekbones, then suddenly laughs and sweeps me off my feet. The whole world is whizzing round, I can feel the warm imprint of every single one of his fingers, especially the one that has somehow slipped under my T-shirt, and it could be awkward.

‘Bugger.’ He staggers off balance, does a daft pirouette and we collapse to the ground. ‘Oof.’

I think that noise is because a fair bit of my weight landed on his stomach.

‘God, you’re a weight.’

‘Your own fault.’ I wave a finger at him, secretly, smugly glad that he did his silly dance so that I’d be the one that landed on top, and he’d be the one that was crushed.

We dust ourselves down, avoiding eye contact. Rolling on the beach isn’t exactly standard flatmate stuff, is it? And even if it was, I wouldn’t be doing it, because I still haven’t figured where I want to fit in the whole relationship arena. Not since Andy did what he did. I think I need casual, except I always seem to duck out of actual dates – because what’s the point, if you know from the start that it’s never going to work out?

‘At least it stopped you taking photos.’

‘You’ve done it now.’ He’s not looking, he’s bent over, so taking his feet from under him is easy. So is planting one foot, warrior style, on his chest and taking a photo. ‘When this is all over, that is going viral!’ I glance at the picture on my phone, check it’s not blurry. It’s not. He’s laughing, a hint of white teeth between his parted lips, lines fanning out from his eyes which are looking straight into the lens. There’s a single strand of honey-brown hair on his brow, curled by the sea air. I want to reach out, brush it away. So instead I stare at my screen. ‘I’ll have to do some retouching of course, sex it up.’

He laughs, then, with one sweep of his long leg, he’s taken mine from under me and I find myself sitting on damp sand.

As I go down, he gets up, and strides away before I can retaliate. He’s grinning though as he looks over his shoulder. ‘First one back gets to pick the movie.’

‘That’s cheating!’

‘Says she. Come on, you’ve got to get your latest dose of Ibiza online.’

I struggle to my feet as he jogs on the spot. But the second I’m upright, he’s off.

Bugger. He’ll pick some really gory, scary, film and I’ll have to spend the evening peeping out from behind a cushion or googling the ending.

Chapter 8

‘Surprise!’ Rachel leaps up and waves madly as I walk into the dimly lit bar. It’s not so dimly lit that I wouldn’t have spotted her though. ‘We’re here! We’re in Brighton!’ She makes a whoop noise before launching herself at me for a mega hug. And she looks so happy, I immediately resolve to never even think about not liking Michael ever again. Once I’ve warned him that castration is still on my agenda. And as long as I don’t have to sit next to him. ‘Look who’s here!’

Rachel is grasping my arm and has moved to one side so I can see who is behind her. I look, and forget all about Michael, and cutting his balls off.

Surprise is the understatement of the year. I’ve been swept back to my days of spots and teenage angst.

‘Remember Maddie?’

‘Oh my God! Of course I do! What a brilliant surprise, how long has it been? You’ve not changed a bit!’ She hasn’t. Maddie has still got the neat, glossy swinging hair, kitten heels and matching accessories that she’s always had. Her perfection could be annoying. But it never has been. She’s too sweet, kind and considerate, and for want of a better word, nice. She is the Audrey Hepburn of the modern day.

Maddie waves wildly with both hands and looks genuinely pleased to see me. In fact, she looks relieved, if I’m honest, which is odd. I don’t ever remember being her favourite. We got on fine, but when we were at high school I drank, smoked and laughed too much for us ever to be bosom buddies.

‘Hey, stranger! You’ve changed lots … in a totally good way, though!’ Her smile and tone is so warm that I get all choked up inside. I think I’ve forgotten what is was like to spend proper time with real friends. Apart from Freddie. But time with girlfriends is different, isn’t it? ‘Look at you, all super star and you’re looking amazing. Those photos on Instagram are fab, you always were dead artistic! Rachel told me they were yours really, not that woman you work for. I look at every single one, I’m so pleased for you!’

I blush and feel guilty. Not out of false modesty (I am quite chuffed with my work for Coral), but because while Maddie has been following my career, I haven’t got a clue what she’s been up to since she picked up her exam results and walked out of high school for the very last time.

Maddie wasn’t a high achiever at school, all she’d ever wanted was to get married and be a stay at home mum. She’d been a natural when it came to looking after people. She cared. Out of Rachel’s group of friends, she had been the one that had welcomed me in without question, even though we were so different. She was the one that didn’t raise an eyebrow because I was in the year below them, the kid that Rach found behind the bicycle shed.

She was also the only girl I knew at school who never dated wildly. While the rest of us were oozing an hormonal smog and snogging in all directions, she only had eyes for one boy: Jack. Jack was her first, her only and I bet you any money they married the moment they left school and have a mini-Maddie and a mini-Jack and live in one of those semis on the new estate by the park, with perfectly manicured lawns and carefully trimmed shrubs. And a hybrid car. And I bet they never accidentally put stuff in the wrong recycling bin.

‘Wow, thanks … and how is—’

‘Jane, Jane, look, Sal is here as well!’ Rachel spins me forty-five degrees with some force.

I don’t get chance to find out what Mads has been up to, or how Jack is, or how many children they’ve got, because I’m trying not to fall off my heels. But I will do later. Definitely.

I stare in shock at the girl sat on the other side of the table. Sally. Who is not at all like Audrey Hepburn. Sally was the girl at school who either already had it all or was damned well going to get it soon. You know the type? You get that longed for pony, next minute she’s got a unicorn. A pink one, that makes dreams come true and farts rainbows. And she was the school swot. You worked three hours on revision for your exams last night? Well, Sally worked all bloody night.

Sally always eyed me suspiciously whenever Rach invited me along on their outings, and she did make a big thing pointing out when they were all teenagers, when they were all sixteen, when they all had bras, when they were all off to the school prom … and I wasn’t. Like I say. Competitive.

Sally was not my best friend at school, but Rachel loved her. They’d met at primary school and did ballet lessons and pony club camp together, so what can a girl do except suck it up and smile? And I never actually disliked her, it was just all that competitiveness could sometimes totally get on my wick and I would have quite liked to have thumped her. Or trumped her unicorn.

Two ‘friends’ I haven’t seen for years – and never imagined I’d see again.

Rachel though had obviously kept in touch with both of them.

I bet they didn’t think they’d see each other either. They are chalk and cheese, the opposite ends of our friendship spectrum and it kind of shows. The vibe isn’t one of giggly reminiscing.

Now when I say ‘friends’ I do mean real, actual friends, as in met at school and drifted apart friends. Not mates from work or people I’ve met on social media.

Sadly though, like a lot of people, I chat less to the real ones because Facebook is about work connections, and all I ever seem to do these days is work. And, let’s face it, these were Rach’s friends. I did have friends of my own, in my own class, as well. Rach was just cooler.

‘Long time no see!’ I bet Sal is running a mega corporation, has an office bigger than my flat, a personal trainer, and survives on quinoa, Japanese poke bowls and kefir (I only know these exist because I have taken photos for Coral – who then proceeded to joke with all her friends about the fact I’d called it quin-o-a not keen-whaaaaa). In fact, I bet Sal grows the stuff herself because she only needs thirty-five seconds sleep a night.

I’m not going to ask. I’m more Krispy Kreme doughnuts than quinoa, if you know what I mean. And most of that healthy stuff just seems to get stuck in my teeth and annoy me for the rest of the day. Whoever thought a rice cake was a good idea? I mean, who dreamt that the words rice and cake should even be in the same sentence?

‘You look amazing, you both do!’ I glance to Maddie, then back at Sal.

Sally looks like she’s put on a few pounds, but she’s glowing. Though Maddie looks a bit sad if I’m honest. Peaky is the term my gran might use.

‘Aww, thanks, Jane.’ Sally slips elegantly off her stool, in the way only tall people can do, and stands up. She towers over me. She always was tall, but now she’s got killer heels on, a waft of expensive perfume, and the type of nails and complexion that says she spends more time pampering than working. So maybe I’m wrong about the mega corporation – unless somebody pampers her while she works. I can see that, I can really see it. A shoulder massage from behind, and a foot massage under her desk, as she shouts out orders on speakerphone.

She’s probably one of those people that has multiple orgasms every time, without losing the place in her book.

She air-kisses me, grins and sits down.

‘Wow, how good is this? The Fab Four reunited!’ I’m aware I sound a bit lame, but I’m temporarily at a loss for meaningful words.

‘I was aiming for the Fab Five!’ Rach looks mischievously at us all.

‘What? Not Beth?’ I look round wildly. Beth with her vodka habit, and Saturday Night Fever dance steps that could clear a floor in seconds, was my naughty-sides twin. She might have brought out the worst in me, but she was so much fun, with a capital F.

The real Fab Four had been Rachel, Beth, Sally and Maddie – until I’d come along and been shoe-horned into the group. But then one day, I’d been tagging along on a night out, and Sal hadn’t, so Beth had declared me an honorary member of the group. I reckon she did it to piss Sally off, but I didn’t really care. I was in.

‘Beth with the boobs?’ That bit comes from Sal, but we all know who she means.

While the rest of us were considering whether booster bras, balconies, or foam fillets would do the trick, slim and petite Beth was displaying her super-sized wares with ease. Sometimes life isn’t fair.

‘Where is she?’

‘She couldn’t come.’

I groan, but I swear Sal perks up. She doesn’t like the competition.

‘But wait for it girls …’ Rachel really is taking the stage now. ‘She said no because …’ She is drawing this one out, but we’re all leaning forward in anticipation. ‘She couldn’t get a babysitter!’

Whatever I thought she was going to say. It wasn’t that.

‘Bloody hell.’ Sal is wide-eyed. ‘Who’d have thought hell raiser Beth would have got up the duff. She was so not the mothering type, she even had her nipples pierced!’

‘She was nice.’ Maddie’s quiet comment gets lost in the excitement. ‘I’m sure she’s made a lovely mum.’

All I can think of is a baby with a mouthful of titanium nipple bar. It is not a pleasant thought.

‘I’d not actually seen Beth for yonks ’cos she did a bit of a disappearing act, moved away, then my mum bumped into hers and she passed on her phone number! She said she’d love to meet up with old friends, ’cos she’s been a bit isolated being stuck at home with a baby. I’ve not actually seen the baby yet, but it’s only tiny, and Beth said she’s been all hormonal, and bigger-boobed than ever,’ this is mind-boggling, ‘and her head isn’t in the right place at all, and …’

‘Wow, she’s married! She beat us all in the adulting stakes!’ I’m a bit gobsmacked. Beth, in my head, will always be the hell-raiser. The one who said boyfriends were for losers (unless they were studded to within an inch of their life, had more nose rings than a herd of bullocks, and more tats than teeth), and pulled a puke-face if she ever saw a baby attached to a nipple – which could be why she got the piercings, I suppose, the biggest barricade to natural feeding ever.

The image of Beth with a baby clasped to her bosom and a husband doing the dishes is just weird.

‘Well, not exactly …’ There is another long Rachel pause. ‘She’s on her own, and she won’t say who the father is!’

I’m not really into these reunions, I mean, there’s a reason you drift apart, isn’t there? And sometimes those reasons are bigger than others. But this one is turning out to be slightly surreal.

Beth has to be the biggest shock. From teenage hell-raiser to worn-out single mum with a secret before I’ve even made a decision on whether a tat would be cool or trying too hard.

‘But she said next time we get together, she’ll be there!’ I think this is Rach-speak for ‘she’ll be at the wedding’, but it looks like she hasn’t broken that nugget of news to the others yet. The wedding bit.

There’s a lull, while everybody thinks about Beth. I decide I need to fill it.

‘Any other births, deaths or marriages I should know about?’ I’m clambering onto a stool as I speak, when Rachel starts to manhandle me and nearly knocks me flying. Looks like I said the wrong thing.

‘Hang on, don’t sit down yet; help me get the drinks in before we get chatting.’ She’s got hold of my arm and is sweeping me along with her towards the bar before I can object. We don’t stop though. After a brief glimpse over her shoulder to check we’re not under observation, she charges onwards, like a mini rhino on a rampage, and I find myself bundled into the bathroom.

Maybe she has been recruited as a spy, as well as getting married.

She slams the door shut, then spins round.

I’ve never been in such posh loos. Except I’m not getting much opportunity to look round or take photos, as Rachel has me pinned against the dryer, which goes off every time I flinch.

‘Sorry I didn’t warn you before, but …’

‘Warn me? What, about Beth?’

‘No, no. About the situ.’

‘Situ?’ I try to edge away as I’m getting more hot air down my neck than I can cope with. Rachel is so close though, there’s not much room for manoeuvre. It’s either bounce off her boobs or get all hot and bothered.

I duck down and pop up the other side of her.

‘Fuck’s sake, Jane. Will you stand still and listen? We’ve not got long, we’ve got to get back to them, we can’t leave them together.’

‘This was your … What do you mean we can’t leave them together?’ I get an uneasy prickle down my spine and it’s nothing to do with the dryer.

‘It’s awkward, well, I need you to be a bit like …’

‘A bit like …?’

‘Like a, well, a barrier?’

‘A barrier?’ I fold my arms, barrier-like. But she has my interest well and truly piqued. ‘What do you mean a barrier? Between what?’ I frown.

‘Between Sally and Mads,’ hisses Rachel.

‘You’ve invited me out to be a barrier?’ As evenings go, this is not panning out as my best. ‘Is this why you wanted Beth as well, then we’d be a double barrier?’

‘No, no, no. Oh, God.’ She runs her fingers through her blonde bouncy waves. ‘I never thought it would be this complicated, but I wanted all three of you to …’ She sniffs. ‘Please, please say you’ll help me make this work?’

I sigh. ‘What’s happened, Rach?’

‘It’s just that, well, you know Sally and Mads?’ I nod. It’s a strange question seeing as we’ve all just been reacquainted. ‘They’ve not seen each other for like yonks.’

I nod. ‘Same here, bit of a shock actually!’

She ignores me, I think she’s had this speech planned. ‘I mean I’ve seen them separately, but we’ve not all got together.’ I nod. ‘Well, there’s something you need to know.’ There’s a long pause while she waits for the other occupant in the bathroom to wash her hands and leave. ‘Sally got married.’

As bombshells go, that’s a bit of an anti-climax. ‘Good for her.’ So maybe I am totally wrong, maybe she does not run a world dominating company. Maybe she is supreme nappy changer. Flannel ones of course. Expensive monogrammed flannel ones. And a maid to dip them in the bucket. Sal is a shit stirrer, not a washer of shit.

Rachel takes a deep breath, then turns to face me. ‘To Jack.’

My image of Sally in marigolds, dunking nappies in a silver bucket is gone in a millisecond. The world does a hiccup. ‘Jack?’ I can hear the note of suspicion in my voice.

She nods.

‘Jack, Jack?’ I think my lower jaw is dangling. ‘Maddie’s Jack? Are you sure?’

‘Positive. I went to their wedding.’

‘You what?’ I think I might be shouting. ‘But, but, they, we …’

‘Jack and Mads split up like ages ago, when he went to uni, so it’s not like Sal barged in and nicked him or anything, and it was Maddie who did the dumping, but, well, Mads didn’t know they were an item until Sally and Jack moved back into the area after, well, you know … the wedding.’

I cringe. I mean, can you imagine? The love (ex-love) of your life suddenly reappears on the scene. With a wife. Your (soon to be) ex-friend.

Then your old school friend invites you all to a big night out in Brighton.

Whoopee!

I’m not surprised poor Mads looks a bit peaky.

‘Rach, how could you! How could you ask them both here, if you knew …?’

‘I didn’t.’ She gulps. ‘Honest. Well, I knew about Sal and Jack, obviously.’

‘And you didn’t think …’

‘I thought Maddie knew! Sal had told me at the wedding that she was totally cool with it, that it was her who had dumped Jack, and he was the broken-hearted one, and Maddie had moved on!’

‘So?’ I look at her suspiciously.

‘I think Maddie’s still got a bit of thing about him.’ The words tail off. ‘I didn’t realise.’ It comes out a bit plaintively. ‘Honest.’ Pleadingly, if that’s a word. ‘Jack rang me this morning, when he found out from Sal we were all coming here. She went white as a sheet apparently when she saw them in Tesco.’

‘So why the fuck did you ask them both here, at the same time?’

‘Because it was too late, and I love them both, I love all of you, and I need us all together. I need all three of you.’ She’s hanging on to my arm. ‘Please help me. I did tell Maddie that Sally was coming as well, and she said it was fine with her, if I really wanted her to come then she’d come because I’m her friend.’

‘And Sal was fine with it?’ Sal would be, I don’t need to ask.

‘She said it was water under the bridge and we were all adults, and what Jack and Maddie had was just puppy love.’

‘I bet she did.’

We both go back to staring at each other in the mirror. Then my shocked brain (good job it’s not alcohol sodden yet) snaps out of its strange state.

‘Shit. And we’ve left them together?’

Chapter 9

‘I need vodka.’ It’s more of a plea than anything as we slide past the bar at full pelt (luckily, the place is quiet), and the rather sexy barman grins as he slams it on the bar. ‘On the tab!’ I don’t even know if we’ve got a tab, but I don’t care. We need to get back.

Rachel is panting down my neck, and I’m a bit breathless myself as she grabs my arm and hisses in my ear.

‘Slow down, slow down, we need to look casual.’

Casual? Ha! I flap my arms away from my body because I’m sure I’ve got sweaty patches forming, and take a deep breath, because I’m wheezing like I’ve just run a marathon.

World war has not broken out. They are sitting slightly woodenly when we saunter up to the table, smiles pasted on our faces; Maddie studying her drink, Sal people watching.

‘Hi! All back, drink!’ I hold it up, to prove the point. ‘Just had to nip to the bathroom’. Did we miss anything?’ There are no visible scars or crumpled up tissues. ‘Everything okay? Ha-ha, why wouldn’t it be? I mean, have you got drinks? Great here isn’t it? Cool! And such a surprise seeing you guys.’ I inwardly cringe. Since when did I call people guys?! ‘Great surprise!’ I’m gabbling and force myself to slow down. Be normal.

Rachel slides out from behind me and sits down. ‘Isn’t this fab? I’m so pleased you could all make it! But this isn’t the whole surprise.’ This is good, what is also good is that Rachel has distracted us all, so it stops me staring open-mouthed at Maddie and Sal.

‘Guess what?’ She doesn’t give anybody time to answer. ‘I’m getting married!’ Rachel actually squeals and claps her hands. ‘Isn’t it brill?’

With this reminder about why we’re all here, I completely forget about the Sally and Maddie stand-off. They could be scrapping like two cats over a fish head and right now I’d be oblivious. What is important now is that my smile is genuine, that I really do show my best friend that I’m happy for her, and that I really can set aside all my doubts about Michael, and happy ever afters in general.

And stop feeling slightly sick about the prospect of walking up the aisle. Or going to a hen party. Or wearing a pretty dress.

Rachel shoves her hand out, so we can admire the rock. It is my first glimpse. If we hadn’t been talking earth-shattering Mads and Sal stuff in the Ladies’, I would have noticed.

Whatever she did to change Michael, it definitely worked. This is one serious diamond. This says commitment in capital letters.

Sal shrieks and hugs her. ‘I knew it! Didn’t I say! I just knew it!’

‘Oh, God, girls, you should have seen him! He came to pick me up in a limo and had posh champagne, and everything.’

I fight to ignore the churning in my stomach. It’s just excitement, nerves, something. But I never did trust flamboyant gestures, although that is what people do when they propose, isn’t it?

Maddie is fanning herself and making aww noises, and Sal is dabbing the corner of her eye theatrically, and I’m welling up all over again.

Maybe Michael has changed, after all it is a while since I’ve seen him (which suits both of us). And he has come running back with his tail between his legs, begging her to marry him – so maybe he’s learned his lesson, and will love and protect my best buddy ‘til the end of their days. I have to believe that.

‘What are we waiting for, let’s order a bottle of bubbly!’

‘Yes, yes!’ Rachel is grinning, hugging herself and looks so happy that I’m happy for her. ‘After you’ve all said you will …’ She pauses and looks at us in turn.

I look at Maddie and Sally who raise eyebrows and shrug in turn. They obviously haven’t heard this bit yet.

‘Be my bridesmaids! That’s why I asked you all here. Oh, you will, won’t you? You have to, it won’t be the same if you don’t!’

‘I’d love to!’ Maddie smiles, but it’s a little uncertain and I notice her slightly shifty ‘Princess Diana’ sideways look towards Sally. She blushes when she realises I’ve noticed and clears her throat. ‘It would be an honour, thank you so much for asking.’ The pinpricks of pink on her cheekbones, and the slight sheen to her eyes makes me frown. She’s also clasping her hands so tightly together in her lap that the knuckles have gone white.

Maddie is sweet, kind and unconfrontational. I’m suddenly sorry about the fact that I’ve not seen her for years.

Rachel waves a hand and the barman arrives with a bottle of champagne that has obviously been pre-arranged.

‘Abso-fucking-lutely!’ What else can I say? I can’t spoil the perfect moment, can I? ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

Sally grabs Rachel. ‘I am so pleased for you, it’s going to be ace. I can honestly say my wedding was the best day of my life!’

There is a squeak, it actually sounds like a small rodent in pain. Maddie’s hand is over her mouth and she practically vaults over the table (not easy in that skirt) in her rush to the Ladies’.

We all freeze. Then Sally starts to twiddle with her glass, and Rachel throws me a guilty look.

‘Sorry.’ She mouths the word barrier. ‘She said she’d be okay, she did know about …’ She throws a guilty look at Sally, who sighs.

‘I suppose we should have warned you.’

‘Warned me! What difference would being warned have made? It’s Maddie who’s upset, not me.’

‘I thought you’d already know, you know Rachel might have mentioned it, or you’d have seen it on my Instagram.’ Sal’s voice has a defensive, scratchy edge.

‘Seen what on Instagram?’ I didn’t even know Sally had an Instagram account, like I said before, we were never close. They both seem to be stuck for words. ‘Oh, you mean your wedding pics.’ I hope I don’t sound as cold as I feel.

‘Well, it’s not like I’ve done anything illegal, is it? She finished with Jack, he was heartbroken!’

I could thump her. But I don’t.

‘So you stepped in to console him?’

She shrugs. ‘Something like that. Oh whatever, it was ages ago, she should be over it all. He was available for fuck’s sake!’ Sal’s eyes are narrowed as she looks at me, then delivers her final blow. Sweetly. ‘And now he’s not.’

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